The H1V3M1Nd!!!!1

As I use the muscles in my legs, both upper and lower, to lift one of my feet up towards the heavens and directly forward and diagonal from my other, place it down, and swiftly descend it back down into the hard earth and repeat with the opposite to traverse forwards down the empty void of blackness in between two gargantuan, leering constructs that serve as habitats for the human race,  I look up at the jeweled, black velvet that stares ominously down at me, its biggest eye a bright yellow crescent, with sharp, jagged points directly opposite from its glowing curve. Most people see an infinite, endless expanse of pure dark blackness when they stare up at its vast, shadowy might, making even the most titanically enormous mountains seem like mere parameciums in its shadow. It makes you question, wonder, and ponder why the mortal primates that we are locate beauty or romantic inspiration in the oblivion vertically above the skulls which serve as carapaces to our flawed, fragile brains. I used to fit into the same carbon-copy mass produced mold as the rest of my fellow homo sapiens. Until my white orbs, with black in the center, and blue discs surrounding the center, which I use for observing the vast array of visual information and the beauty and dangers of the world that lay before me or in my peripheral vision were exposed to the absolute archaic and demonic, catastrophic consternation that my twin optic spheres could barely comprehend, I used to agree with the notion that the sky, absent from the huge, fiery orb that gives our celestial body light and warmth was, indeed, brunet. Charcoal. Ebony. Jet. BLACK.

 

Now, what my ocular headlights in the nether region of my forehead view from the darkened heavens is crimson; red. The coloration of the fluid that flows throughout the blue tunnels and pathways throughout our flesh and our organs that allows us to experience the absolute improbable miracle that is the activity of our cells, tissues and organs working together in harmony in order to support our existence, and the function that is life itself. Ironic, then, that when the average Animalia Chordata Mammalia Primates Haplorhini Simiiformes Hominidae Homininae Hominini Homo Sapien beholds, or even uses the electric currents in the organ via which the concept known as our mind is possessed by to fathom it, we associate hemoglobin and sanguine fluid with extermination and fatality. Why is it that the most intelligent and evolved beings the planet known as Earth has ever been inhabited by are repulsed by the very thing that the central organ of the circulatory system pumps throughout us to keep our body functioning and breathing? Why does the collective majority of human culture have their bones and cartilage freeze and shiver with the thought of it? Speaking of which, the most clever primates on the planet also have an aversion to the calcium structures that prevent us from being mere piles of flesh and organs. The scaffolding of humans, beheld by the vast yet perverse imagination of the minds of the earthly civilization, is often associated as a glum emblem of Hades, despite it also keeping our very bodies from not succumbing to the bleak yet sweet embrace of the arms of the reaper. Could it be that the bipedal torsos with tandem arms and a singular head that we are fear our very existence?

 

But I, he who traverses his philangees across the cyrillic text displayed throughout the many buttons on the laptop that we use to communicate information throughout not only our minds but the digital circuitry of the computer machines we created with our very manipulative structures at the ends of our arms to give communicate this urban legend to your eyes, and thus, to your minds, have wandered miles, if not lightyears, away from the matter dealt with in a text, discourse, or conversation; the subject of this piece of literary work. I must trudge my way through my ultimate trauma, fighting the denial and tragedy that cursed me, and still curses me now, to advise you about the point of all my harsh cerebral industry. I saw an invisible installment of a pageant that stars Will Smith as a fictionalized version of himself, a street-smart teenager from West Philadelphia who is sent to move in with his wealthy uncle and aunt in their Bel Air mansion after getting into a fight in his hometown. This captured version of an idiot box spectacle that is used with legitimate population, its diversion intent being jocose, is known by a mile-long array of identities, due to the legion of tongues, languages, and dialects possessed by the inhabitants of Gaea. But the mortals that crash in Anglospherical territories known it as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

 

The genesis point of the episode, from which the rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution all spring forward from in a respectively chronological continuity of transactions, originates with the human celebrity that is well respected by his fellow mortals as a performer, a rapper, and, with a respectably vast gathering of probability, a throng of other things who is identified, with the purpose of people gaining the mutual understanding of whatever being is meant to be referred to, as William Carrol Smith Jr. He is sitting on a large throne, with highly ornate yet improper “lacerations” of Holy Roman descent carved into the counterfeit gold, likely scorched at 212 degrees fahrenheit (100 degrees celsius) and blown with the intent of it shifting and shaping into a mammoth mold forged from the synthetic substance familiar to the masses as plastic. While William Carrol Smith Jr., who is operating under the false conception and guise that he is a fictional character within the universe of the story marked as Will Smith, is speaking along with a barrage of velocity, inflection and cadence, the one in question abides in the environment, the chair of sovereignty that the sir bends both of his lower limbs in an upside down l-shape so his gluteus maximus can exist on the part of the warped bench constructed for that destiny casually yet also remarkably pivots 360 degrees heterogeneous occasions. Withal, on the alabaster blanket, barricade, and/or panel that existed roughly somewhere between 12 and 36 inches (30.48 to 91.44 centimeters) directly facing the back of his cranium, on which there was no eyes, nose, mouth, eyebrows, or any other components of the human aspect, instead of the constant collage of miscellaneous symbolism from the final decade of the century before ours, the 20th one from the alleged birth of Jesus, there was instead, written in the very cruor and plasma we angst to a legendary degree, “BARKING DOGS DON’T BITE.”

 

Fortuitously, I possessed a blimp bulk of kismet, and I was a connoisseur of macabre tortellini. By virtue of the aforementioned series of contrived coincidences that led us down a long, winding path of descending down the pages of this story, I subsisted cognizant the fact that on any occasion topnotch-authentic claret materializes in a constitution of publishing, I have a prerequisite of pandemic operation before my heart and soul, my being, my very life, is rendered unto ash and manufactured squalid. And I did. As I lifted my lower leg muscles upwards to propel slowly but surely into a standing position inches in front of the seat of my couch, I sprinted like the legendary whirlwind towards the four legged glass plank in the room where I consume and devour the nourishment needed for life to maintain itself, and perceived a protracted ingot volumetric curve with a smaller one near the bottom, with an iron activation button on it. A torpedo actuated pineapple explosive catapulter. And I pulled the button, and a fiery projectile sprinted down the barrel, and flew gloriously towards its morbid destination, as it then died in a bright burst of glory. Annihilated they were, both the projectile and the TV. But as I am amaurotic to some of the array of chromatisms of Gaea, I still see ebony as maroon.