Having my own place in New York was cool—very cool— on paper, but the logistics of it were something else entirely. I hated it, and I wanted nothing more than to escape. It was a dirty, noisy Hell with too many people— and too many places to go that I couldn't afford. I could no longer focus on anything but panicking, freaking out, trying to escape. Everything was crooked and jagged edges — it was as if the city itself was the epitome of mental illness as a whole; the illusions of wealth shattered by the overbearing reality of the working, moving, and hostile poor. I wanted nothing more than a break.

As I began to tear down what had been the last five years of creation, I also realize a stunning pattern— I had been tossed and thrown around like an animal, and now was no different. I was, in the greater sense of the mind of some overbearing power, just an animal. The only difference now was, I was in a cage. I could be observed and followed and even experimented on—all at the cost of my humanity. A bathroom I could use at will, a bed and a hot shower. Though the piercing strangeness of millions of others poured in at every angle in the empathic misery that was a convolute mass depression, the heavy weight of another 8 or so million trying to struggle, survive, insecure, and actively also panicking in one way or another, other individuals. The general sense was that if I didn't move, I would become ill— and I had already become sick from the movement and the noise, the chaos and the sense that I did not belong; tired of the dirt and the grime and the racist and ugly truths— tired of the games and the politics, but all alone in the world with no true method or serum for having a better alternative.

Here I was, just being in New York and feeling as if in the slightest sense that I was having to crawl out of my skin or scratch my eyes out because no matter what I did to try, New York just wasn't me in the ways I wanted.

I wasn't enough.

Worse, now I was tired. Unkempt lifestyles raging around me were running me ragged and I'd nothing to do but sit in the hellscape of the epiphany that all these little boys had turned into the world's problem in the absence of guidance— and that simply my being here was an addition to that matrix; the world's growing problem of unadulterated masculinity met with blistering aggravation in arrested development.

New York was filled with little children with big responsibilities; adults who had been raised by emotionally stunted intellectually deficit imbeciles, in one way or another— and not that I was much different, besides that I was tame.

As the weather grew warmer, the people became animals again, and though myself an animal as to be considered, I was well behaved, well mannered, well trained— without the slightest having-to-do for bullshit and without the patience for it to be such a forward trait in others that it seemed almost as if I was surrounded by ill behaved children almost at all times, and almost never alone when I wanted or needed to be.

I would have rather and might as well have been raising a child— and would rather have. But the conditions under the circumstances were horrible, and after nearly two years of this it seemed altogether like a horrible place— not because of the location itself, but because of the people in and surrounding it.

New York was giving me more and more of a haggard crassness about myself that I hated — and more of an anger than I knew what to do with.

The motorcycles had finally made me more sick than I could have imagined; I no longer trained, though of course, after being followed, and worse— I no longer ran.

My stomach ached with anxiety to the point that it had once more become hard just to move about and carry out average tasks. I felt as if my muscles were stiffening inside of my body and turning to rock.

I hated everybody and everything, and I most certainly did not want to make friends, go out, or make music. I found everyone nauseatingly fake, programmed, brainwashed-/ and even on my best days, after a bit of exercise and proper meals, all I could seem to see was the toxicity. All I could seem to hear were cars and motorcycles that were too loud, and all I wanted to do was kill the thing responsible for creating it. Suicide had set in once more, and I just as much wanted to rip a serrated knife though my veins as the motorcycles seemed to take pleasure in ripping serrated sounds through my stomach. I wanted to die; and for everyone who had contributed to my pain to die with me.

No, I wasn't some rogue mass shooter or a soon to be terrorist— but I had never in my own mind been so considerably violent with the hopes that these people would meet an end— there was no peace and in this sense it was war.

{Enter The Multiverse}

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