The Obscure

If only you rosebuds knew the depths of my self-loathing.
Here I sit with an intolerable squeal grinding straight into the center of my brain, my scalp growing sprouts of itchy intelligence and my hands thinking with a speed twice that of a normal man.
What then do I long for? Why then do I continue to question and rave about the contradictory nature of my fellows? All the while I sit here grinning, thinking in my head how much I wish to taste the cold edge of the knife. Imagine a bludgeoning, a blunt object crashing into my body with all the might of omnipotent death, crushing my body to a paste and hurling my soul down into the darkest depths of the Earth.
There, a subduction fault sucks me under, and the intense pressure of eons of rotation crushes my spirit into a tiny metaphysical diamond, over a fraction of a millennia. Here stand I, on the threshold of a higher consciousness, wandering to and fro, wondering which man is the true Ginsberg of the bunch, and questioning whether I will ever fully actualize any of my insufferable dreams.
I am a dreamer, they say. Not John Lennon's brand of dreamer. I am just a Ridiculous Man, to quote my buddy from Mother Russia. In my mind I feel a constant need to substitute a more interesting world for this lousy one, a need to invent countless timelines by which I may live to make up for the obvious dull nature of the one in which I am currently imprisoned.
Wherefore art thou, dignity? I sit on the crest of a wave that broke under the nose of a very large God. Omniscient was he. And once I did ask him if he knew the best way to find out where I was going. He hurled at my heart a cold bolt of lightning and said with a grimace that I'd never find shelter. I tapped out a beat with my left foot and fingers, and walked twenty miles to the nearest bus station.
"Who was to stop me?", I asked without warning, and I found that my shoes had gone suddenly missing These words are to the scheme of that song by Bob Dylan, or Zimmerman Jewcakes, as some of us knew him. The one where William Zanzinger kills someone some-something, with a cane that he twirled 'round his diamond ring finger.
I digress. Of course I digress, I have never spoken a sensicle word in all my life.
And I don't think I shall start now. Goodnight ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time.