...with bloodshot eyes - and not a smidgen of THC in my body to be high - my mind was not thinking of one idea, but maybe hundreds, not heading in one tangible direction, but in far too many to count. Things in reality molded without changing, with its laws, rules, and concepts contorting not by my command, but randomly distorting due to my own distorted perception. This is not a tale of a terrible disaster, more like it's a self-destructive journey where everything is gold as I see it, and I feel completely and wholeheartedly superb while all those around me feel panicky, and maybe even scared for their lives as I attempt to find those who will guide me to my ascendence above all else in my messiah mindset. I don't know when it exactly began. Nobody who suffers a psychosis ever does; it just happens. For me, the problem was that it most likely started well before I even quit my job, a gradual build up where no spark is needed, and is more like a slow burn of a candle that is able to last nearly a year. Who the fuck knows. It's different for everybody, for every person, regardless of whether they suffer from a brain disorder or not, are like snowflakes, spending their whole lives falling from an indifferent sky, forming into something unlike their brethren surrounding them, and when they melt, they'll evaporate and start all over again when it gets cold. A lot of people don't like to think of life and death as being what I just described, but it basically is, and it's up to each individual to either deal with it, or pretend it's not true. Anyways, I guess you can say a psychosis is the peak, and mania is its slow ascendence. Though I had felt great, my time with Summer, losing my virginity, and then some (wink, wink) was part of that mania, and to be honest that time with her I'll never regret, because being in love and making love is worth it, no matter who blows their bullshit criticism in my face to my ears. I don't care. It was awesome. Even smoking all that weed was worth it, because I was happy. Doing those drugs at Comic-con and then in Las Vegas was fucking beautiful. I got to perceive the best as well as the worst of human interactions. I mean, shit, that Cowboy Billy in that Presidential Suite at the MGM Grand with his wife and four other prostitutes, and the sight of that pitcher filled with... never mind, I need to speak of the peak, the psychosis. The ones who get the most attention in the public eye - because of the media bloodhounds - are the ones who think they're the devil, or some kind of werewolf, and murder a family member, or eat a stranger, because they get it in their heads the Zombie Apocalypse has come, and they.... well, you catch my drift if you're sober. I call that the Monster Complex Psychosis, or maybe the Beast Mode Psychosis. The fuckers who suffer from those get media attention like a secretary giving a blow job to the President of the United States. I mean, it's unimportant, holding no aesthetic or conscientious building of one's own character, just bullshit tabloid entertainment for the masses who are bored out of their minds. But my own psychosis, which actually is what occurs in most cases, was what I personally call a Messiah Complex Psychosis, because I basically thought I had figured out all the worlds problems, and I found the signs in the details of my own family history, as well as misconstruing familiar and general associations which led me to believe I was the reincarnated savior of the planet to finally bring true peace to the modern era. So basically when I pass by a schizo on the street rambling on and on about the end of the world, or how the Easter Bunny stole their booze on a Saturday afternoon, I'm surprisingly proud to say, "Been there, thought almost like that," and calmly continue walking.
It began with no sleep. I wasn't getting any during the last month of the year in 2008. Even when I smoked indica weed, I didn't fall asleep to dream, but I began dreaming anyway. Everything in life led to the existence of myself, every movement of mankind and it's struggle to leave the legacy that must survive the eternity that is the result of me being alive and conscious to live, perceive, learn, and create if I so chose to. I was once alive; I know this because when I went to the country where my father was born, and visited the cemetery of my grandfather, I found his brother's tombstone, my great-uncle whom was also named Olavi Pienen. Yes, I was once alive, but now over 80 years later, I survived to perceive what the world has become, and those born before me have made that same perception easier. All that was to be believed in at that time of my existence was imagined from the beginning because no one was given the answers. The answers are in front of you the entire time; those with imagination identify what those answers are because they're never given any. At one point that evening my friend Mario and I were smoking weed in my car before going to see a movie in Century Theaters. I sat there, barely feeling euphoric, explaining all my newfound revelations and realizations regarding what our reality truly is. He sat in the car, smoking the blunt slowly, listening intently, or maybe not listening at all, thinking about the girl he was about to meet up with. I was to go see another film entirely, then meet back up with him in the car. I was saying, "Yes, we're born into this, but if we were only born before everything was defined, maybe we wouldn't have been able to develop the memory to perceive, merely exist in it, and act on the instinct of survival and the simple, but pleasurable act of procreation." Mario put out the blunt in my car's ashtray, and said, "It's time. I'm going to meet her at the entrance. You?" I uttered, "Oh." Then said, "Yes, I'll walk down with you. Get my ticket for 'Transporter.' I'll meet you here when you guys are done." He said, "Cool, man." Then we headed to the movies. The problem was I began becoming paranoid. Though it was late in the evening, and not many people were around, I felt everyone's eyes looking at me. The people were real, of course, but mere momentary glances became fierce, concerned, and fearful glares right into my eyes. I looked away every time a person was doing this to me. The only normal people were the people working at the movie theater: the person behind the glass selling the movie ticket, as well as the one tearing it up after I entered inside the theater's lobby. I made my way to the theater room where the movie was playing, and I was overwhelmed with a sense that I was in total danger, that someone knew I was going to be in there, and when I was relaxed and enthralled by the movie's content, the person would shoot and kill me, and others as well before heading to the exit. I thought to myself, I've got to prevent this horror from occurring. And I figured if I wasn't in the theater at the preordained time, I wouldn't be the first to be shot, so the horror of a mass shooting would be averted by me altering what I was going to see in the theater that very evening. So I entered another theater that was showing the film Bolt that was about an actor dog who thought he was actually the characters he was playing in the film within the films. I don't remember one seen from that movie, because my brain exploded with thoughts. My eyes were always on the big screen, but I wasn't seeing anything other than what I was thinking. I came to the realizations that my world was fake, and everyone in it were actors, and not only were they helping fake the world I lived in, they were in fact protecting me from the blind evil in this world who spent their entire lives looking for me because I was the one to bring peace to this world by the great orations I were to speak in the near future to the masses who desired my revelations and realizations. That we are in fact, each of us as individuals are the center of the universe, and we are our own God, who produce our children's own ability to be their own God....blah, blah, blah. My eyes were wide, both white and bloodshot. The weed no longer had effect on me. Shit, imagine if I were on cocaine at the time, but luckily I had no interest in the white powder. Later, when the movie was over I was walking down the theater's hallway I heard Mario call from behind me, "Olavi, you liked it?" His arm was around the girl he was hanging out with. I replied, "It's all fake." I kept running my hand over my devilock flat atop my head. Mario said, "Yep, the dog didn't realize it." I then said, "Like everyone else on this planet." As I waited for Mario to stop talking to his lady friend I sat in my car listening to Slayer's Angel of Death on my car's stereo, I had suddenly come to the realization that horror was still possible in that theater, so I left my car and headed back to it. I found a place at the corner of the building, and as I lit myself a cigarette, I looked up at the building's address number displayed high on it's wall: 155. I thought, The number's equal eleven. I died on the eleventh day in August back in Finland almost eighty years ago. I must be alive now to prevent people's death here. I got my cellphone out, and dialed 911. After a few minutes I realized it didn't ring, and there was no answer. Then there was a beep on the other line, and it hung up on me...
