The Jabberwocky 21st c.

It is all a bit of an oddly discombobulated combination.

So now he’s thinking What on earth have I got myself into, the girl is crazy.  Impatience is not a virtue, it is a virtuality.  Life is so speedy that nothing is quite as fast as Ecila expects it to be, she is on another level, how cliché.  Another plane, where substance is created and extinguished in nanoseconds.  He reads her like a book though, like a poem, like a literary article, taking apart every critical atom, telling truths about her existential nihilism which is all too convenient as her memory isn’t what it used to be.  The universe is a chaotic, irrational place, O pegs in  holes, whilst the world’s essence is on a mission to be a nice straight line, maybe lots of parallel lines and there are two strands to every thought, or three in fact, since the truth is inaccessible.  Ultimate doom, the universe can’t cope with disassociated order.

Ecila’s favourite person, Jack, intermittently interrupts her trail of thought, she pushes him away, blocking him out so she can concentrate on climbing her nettled beanstalk.  Stupid cow, should have worn something slightly more protective, the sun is burning my skin to cinders as nettles sting her uncovered arms and pierce through her skinny jeans.  I need my head reading, or testing, or MRI scanned or something, but nobody’s reading or testing or scanning it, but I guess mind readers just lie anyway, right?  Crystal balling the mimsy borogroves, I’m in overland, and I can’t get out.  There is no rabbit hole at the end of this compendium of leaves and I am not rightly in the mood to meet any giants.  Read that.

During her mental courtship with common sense, Ecila stumbled across the initiation of free will.  Plucking meandering words from her many minds, a nice group happily sat themselves on the banks of A4 lined and ruled paper creating a few sentences for her: Is God just playing, watching us like we watch Friends, waiting for the next scripted moment of humour, and sarcasm, for the round of applause, and echoing laughter.  Is God’s studio Heaven and is it full of re-runs and repeats because I don’t want to go to Heaven if it’s a recording studio of repetitive fakery.  I want the real thing.

Ecila decides to bide her time here – in the curveless panes of glass, binding herself to a life that seems / is / is not (it is all and none and any of these at any given moment, it depends on the mood of the moment) completely pointless, or less of a point than she might have originally thought, back to way back when, when she was dreaming dreams of normality / conformity / society / culturality / religiousity / traditionality / expectationationality – than in the hell perfectly guised as God’s heavenly Radio Times.

Continuing her climb up the beanstalk, nibbling pumpkin pie as she ascends, her black Egyptian top-liner melts into her facescape.  Her zealous mind takes her away on an adventure to a laboratory so she can measure hormone levels hypothesising that some serotonin and melatonin stuffs are missing, even science has the capacity to rhyme.  Stop eating carbohydrates and drink more milk and start eating turkey, gosh, make the words stopI don’t want turkey! Cue terrible childhood trauma involving a conker-brown-feathered pet hen called Chuk-Chuk, her grandfather’s carving knife [//three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run, see how they run//], and a family roast dinner.

It’s always something relating to childhood.  She shudders at the psychoanalysis controlling at least her breathing, beating down the gate that Jack was trying to open, again.  Ecila has such control of her life, it hits a point of personality apartheid.  The arrhythmic complexities keep the cogs turning, or the steady feet climbing up the enormous chlorophyllic poison-ivied structure.  When things take course and act how they want of their own accord through no effectual Ecila force, she finds herself in a bit of a quandary.  Attempting to extricate herself from a mild form of formally-undiagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder, was strangely satisfying, and disturbing simultaneously. Perhaps even leading to delusion, which is just another form of mental coma.  Kinda.  Ecila studied Psychology at ‘A’ Level for the sole purpose of a self-diagnosis.  Manic depression.  She needs a lab though, so it’s palpable.

It is not like she can just steal some 5-HTT long genes from the frozen isle in Waitrose, she would have to carry out some moronic act of violence to consume chromosomes, somehow.  I knew I should have paid attention in Chemistry and Biology, swings and roundabouts eh?  And laughs to herself.  Not out loud, that would just make her mad.

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