Your breath punctures static mirror. I look at it and watch the glass shatter into a moon that dissolves and evaporates into discarded memories. You had written numerous things in an obscured chat box, your silent form dwindling into dusty cracks of a silent room in an apartment.
Your dialogue made my retinas squirm. You typed a sentence that blew a vacuum of digital and imagined pornography into my mind and tore off shards of my eardrum.
“We did erotic things. Having sex underneath an enveloping moon. Can’t you feel me? Swimming in your brain, attacking your neural net, sharpening my passion in your heart.”
I fell atop a discarded moon. You had eyes that pierced the twilight and sank into my fabricated heart strings. The last time I heard your voice, it assaulted me, a form of digital bliss. I suck your static breath and watch it leave the fabricated moon without a trace. You begin typing to me again. I’m aware in my moment of half realized reverie, sitting alone in an office building with lights continuously blinking.
“When can we meet?” she asks me in riddles. “When can we meet under the dying moon? This archaic way of meeting, when my form can disappear in your dream and we can meet and let our bodies aglow.”
I stare out the window of a windowless room. A digital screen for a window. The silent pixelated grass and the smell and auditory sensation of insects chirping their mechanical whirrs. I have neighbors but they exist outside of this box. They call it a digital hell.
I escape during boredom, up at 1am for lack of sleep. Suffering paralysis from the screens but being sucked into the screens just the same. I met her under the rubble of the screens. She said we could destroy the screens together.
Every scene would change. But she would leave me, and I’d feel our meeting was left in vain left to rot in the digital hell. Have you heard of the Deep Blue? She once asked me.
The Deep Blue. Perhaps it was one of those clubs we met in once, we watched artificial bodies dance in high tech sweat to artificially created rhythms. We stood in the back of the club the blue lights of neon swaying back and forth while we put our tongue in each other’s mouths and fucked amongst a beacon of noise.
No, the Deep Blue. Where you ingest your memories, and your memories regurgitate into new memories. You can see the froth of your past. All vomited and buried up, and whether something is intangible. I’m just a ghost she says. I’m a speck of intangible data trapped in you.
We talked about animus and anima once in the great connected dream. I could mention and mention it, but it would never be erased from my neural faculties.
I had a continuous dream of the chat box and we met under the window of a shopping center, her form a transparent haze putting a hand to reach out for me and dissipating just the same. This tarnished physical body.
“Where are you?” I’m here in the same conceived space as you reaching out for your hand from the great divide of the void.
We once talked about lost echoes. Her scream puncturing a hole in my organs. To feel your tongue writhe and squirm inside me, swimming up to my brain, dissecting my thoughts and ripping them open.
She left me a riddle in the chat box, and I dive in, swimming in a beacon of labyrinths.
The animus and the anima. Part of me that is lost, and part of you that is lost. But can you see me through the great connected dream? Can you see me on the other side of the window, my hand fading away into nothingness time. In the same space as you but on another plane of existence.
Let’s go to the Deep Blue. She says. We float through the haze of a dead city while mannequins sleep in their homes below absorbing useless information and vomiting unrealistic currencies into one another.
This languid haze.
System shut off. The light clicks. Your violet form withers away into the static of your washed up apartment room.
I lapse into the state of awareness and sit in a corner of my apartment block smelling a dinner I had eaten several hours ago.
We met in the connected dream and she told me to write my dreams down to relay them to her the next time we met.
Why did I have to relay a dream again when she is in the dream then?
I wake to the sound of a police car outside my window and a silent voice whispering something hard to understand. I part the curtains in my room and see nothing below. Only a figure walking on the street obscured in darkness. A feminine face, perhaps yours. The figure turns and points upward to my window.
I wake again, the sentence in my mind. I love you, she says, a telepathic loop planting seeds inside my mind.
We talk the next afternoon in the chat box. In a hole inside of our apartments.
“What was your dream?”
“You said you love me.”
“Yes, I did say that.”
“Put your tongue inside of me. Dump your memory into me.”
The taste of acid rain, your eroticism stabs a hole in my heart.
We have digital sex through the network. The chat box can expand and contract at will through thought perception. My room vibrates and contorts. It’s being sucked into you. Your room transforms into my room, it crumbles together. Intermittent flashes of light on the ceiling. Your naked body on the bed. I dive into your mind. You become wet, your mind becomes wet. This intangible data. We lie on a bed that is half yours and half mine.
“Mind if I tell you a secret?” she whispers.
“Tell me anything.”
“The secret is this reality, it is not reality, only that I am lying next to you in a room that is buried inside of you, inside of me. You will rip apart from this and lose me.”
I look at my palms, electric shock stinging my fingers, shooting all over my body. I spit on your erect nipples and you project secrets around me, the ripples of your voice pelting me like rain.
We have sex on half of your bed and half of mine. I’m inside you floating freely, I watch you scream in bliss and tell me that you want to escape your self. I want to escape my self too I tell her. And float away beyond my self.
We float through unmoving time, only waiting for something and nothing to reappear.
That was my dream. Tuesday 12am.
Tell me your dreams I tell her.
Tell me your dreams, she says to me. Write them down and type them in text to me. That is the only way I can connect to you and you can connect to me. What’s important is that you love me here, inside a world that is not a world but only exists in a thread connecting me to you.
She told me her dreams.
They were connected to mine in strange ways. I was depressed, mentally unstable, she says. I was looking for help. Alone in my room. Attached to my bed. Screaming into a void. An unfathomable hell.
Six years later, her dreams reached me. I heard a cry for help in dreams. I dreamt of a computer screen, obscured shadows. Sometimes a woman would scream in my ear. I’d wake in a cold sweat.
We met through the digital reality of reality.
You can connect to me and I can connect to you. Do you know the riddle of the mirror she asked me once. The riddle of the mirror. When you look in the mirror and see two sides of your self. The self that you look at and the self that is looking back at you is only half. There exists another self on the other side of the mirror that reflects you.
That’s where I scream. I screamed for someone to hear me. A mirror that is broken can only be put together with its mirror image.
I puncture a hole in the wall and your body floats through. I’m a ghost beyond saving. She says.
I can connect to you, that is all, but I will forever be your ghost.
Dream of a grocery store. Walking through aisles of produce, text messages filtering through my mind. From you perhaps. I need your help, she tells me. I look at my watch and watch it freeze on a repeating number. I need your help. I’m frozen in the produce aisles of my mind.
What do you need help for? I do not know at this moment.
Or when we met in the office in reality. The job of the screens. Asleep and awake at every moment. Faces and data pass by me in thirty second intervals. It freezes my brain. Three hundred times a minute. Better to leave the screens occasionally. We meet in silence outside of a hallway, you freeze in motion. It is you, from my dreams, beyond the digital hell.
I want to touch your hand, lick your palm. You look at me and a second later you are gone. I am seated at the screens again staring at nothingness.
Dream of an endless night. Half awake through this intangible mess. Shouting into a hole in the nothingness void of time. Your silent whispering into delusions of reality.
Kiss me where I can escape into the night she says. Leave me buried inside a partition of your consciousness.
Your eyes looked like an opaque moon floating in a stationary mess.
Did we share our dreams tonight? I ask myself repeatedly. Connected through you, in a haze glimpse in the fabric of time.
Sometimes we play games. I’m a digitized body, paralysis of my limbs, staring at a screen transfixed in a dream.
You jump out through a screen, escaping into a fabrication void.