These days I either seem to be going to sleep or waking up; the surreal dreamscape in the middle is something I can comprehend in my guts, it is the bookending decadent and media-sodden so-called reality that I have a hard time speculating on.
In the early hours of the morning the man two floors upstairs howls rhythmically, reaching a squawking crescendo, like an amorous carrion bird. A lone voice wailing at life in the middle of the night. Every night. He is either spanking the proverbial monkey wrapped in sandpaper, using a baseball bat wrung with barbed wire to flagellate, or is a real clumsy sonovabitch. His irrational and antisocial need to bellow his ecstatic or agonising convulsions come from deep inside his emotional jungle within.
I, on the other hand, feel an overwhelming and deep-seated pyromaniacal urge to somnambulistically knock on the dire jizz-monster’s door and lob a Molotov cocktail in through the crack to put him out of everybody’s misery. Preferably, my projectile of choice would be a Finnish named street fighting weapon that has been forced full of styrofoam and left to marinade like the most murderous of booze for months on end. The styrofoam breaks down and when ignited by the paraffin becomes something akin to homemade napalm. Do not ask how I know this, just file it away under, “Useful Information In Case of a Zombie Apocalypse,” or a spectacular way to hand in your notice.
I can just see the man flailing about his immaculately dusted living room, covered in flames, knocking over and inadvertently setting light to his collection of Japanese artificial vaginas, dripping bronzed flesh coloured plastic onto the floor. The excess heat sets off the in-built nanobot fire cloud that sprinkles down upon the gimp masked figure; wetting his third degree burns; soothing his scarred cheeks; transforming the balm of sensitivity into a whole world of erotic sensation for him to plunder.
Keep the fucking noise down, please!” I hiss at the glistening figure, all foetal on floor.
If he turns out to be some suffering handicapped guy with bed sores, I am really going to Hell for this one.
And that, my fellow travellers on the crooked path of righteousness, is the jungle. If you have made a snap instinctive judgment about me based on your reading of this piece, that is the jungle working. The jungle is where all opinions swing through hysterical trees of the imagination; where political inclinations hunt to eat the raw flesh of their adversaries; where overreactions screech and rage in the dead of night; where revenge is plotted in the overturning of rocks.
The jungle is far stronger than I, and all experience is first filtered through its dark and strangled vines. I have given the jungle a name to separate it from the me that seeks peaceful solitude; the me that does not desire to procreate with any female with all the oat-sowing curves in all the right places; the me that rejects the creating of entrapping and nervous behavioural patterns. Atheists wish to rid the world of the irrational fall-out of the jungle in an ironic attempt to deny evolution; the fanatically religious dwell in their own self-created hut tapping on coconut shells in the hope that the jungle will answer.
Yet, the jungle has saved and enriched our lives many times over.
Ever frozen just when an extra step would have meant certain death?
Ever wondered why the greatest technological progress has been made during states of war?
I am not here to bring you cheap answers, you foolish fellows; only questions.
Do not ask me such things.
Silence is golden.


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