sicpowered

between you and me, the truth is i just don't know. sure, i wish i could tell you, but i can't. what were they thinking, why did they do it like that, why? children shouldn't sit through that, adults shouldn't encourage such a shapeless evil. in one end, out the other, never to be the same, forever scarred, forever changed. when they feel cruel, they remind me of my own time there. in the dark. alone on the hard plastic bench, blinding orange sunlight behind me, a harsh pleasing memory. the winding path, the robotic jerking, and nameless, identical faces all staring at me, alone, tired, so tired. far from home, from any place to rest, i sat staring, at once lonely in my awe, my growing disease. they turn to face, from in front of me, for i was the last to enter, smiling, jibs and cracks at the whip-snap ready, and i sat dumb defenseless from lack of sleep, lack of joy. at first i could barely comprehend the sickness, at the half way point i was hopelessly lost, an eternity in front, and an endless backtrack behind. no getting up, for that they have the most severe punishment, deep in the dark the others, the enforcers lurk behind the shadows of the faceless children, all singing and twisting, dead and joyful. all these faces one by one, all cast from the same mold, all filling in the deep well of my sanity with shovel sized clumps of terror. the smell of piss, dead rotting food, and sickening sweet perfume lingers, the dark is saturated with the empty recycled breathing of countless millions. i recoil at every turn, slow they may be, for each face turns to me, each smile identical, and unerringly horrible. i'm moaning to myself, in the dark, alone and lonely, comfort as far away as the blazing sun, it's heat and radiance as far from me as my last clean breath. at the bend, they are all there, in review of my horror, all satisfied that i am nothing but another victim to be paraded past, a chain in the machine of their dead faces. and they are no longer just dead, now they mock the angels with winged raiment gossamer drapes of dirty filth and chanting, always chanting, rotten singing echoing through the air not from their closed skull smile, not from their plastic faces, but truly from the invisible minds behind the dark and behind me and always singing the damned same thing.

it's a small world after all
~disneyland