Background:

The main character in this piece of fictional prose is a musician who suffers from severe paranoid schizophrenia. Disclaimer: this is 100% pure fictional word art.


Dubstep


"static." They're coming.

Press play.

Shut down.

Tune out.

Tune in.

Some heavenly melody graces my ears, with artificial intelligence overtones but its acceptable. It is 2012 after all. It weaves and progresses and I begin to let go.
Time moves on the Youtube bar, but quite slowly. This lifetime will only be three for four minutes, I can handle it.

Slow breakdown. The angels start to cry.

WROMMMBLE WRROMMBLEE WRRRRRRRRRRRRR

Shit. Where am I?

(you're inside your brain, let go man)

No.

WRMOMMMBLE WRRRROMMMMBLE WRRRRRRMMMM

It hurts.

(just let go)

NO.

Sanity is being sucked out of the center of my brain, replaced by a titanium drill that wants to inject its digitized toxins in me. Its will is strong. My walls are stronger. I will simply observe because I know this demonic entity cannot defeat my will no matter how hard it tries.

The frequencies created by this machine are exponentially stronger than any stories of Hell I was told as a child. Is Hell following me? I've seen it in my mind at the mental hospital. Even if it is following me in the form of these frequencies, it can't win. I'm a musician. I play instruments. I am not a digitized demon trying to mindfuck the youth.

The fear escalates. Enter survival mode.

Press stop.

Shut up.

Tune out.

I'm shaken but I'm still here. I've felt enough. It taught me what I need to know.

Subconsciously I thank the Devil for not taking me so soon. My will prevailed. Maybe I don't have to visit the Crossroads after all.

27 is a lifetime but so is 111.

Thank you, Jimi.

So long, dubstep. Goodbye past.