Cyclops

The Beast lies sleeping, its one evil eye closed. Somehow, even in its sleep it still has power over me, and I feel poisoned, infected by its influence. It has my family hostage, of course, and it sleeps comfortably with that knowledge. But here I speak of it as though it were merely human, with human limitations like knowledge and consciousness. That must be part of its influence, a remnant of the trance. Maybe it wants me to think of it as human, a part of the family. Ha. 

The Beast has a hypnotic eye. When it stares at me, into me, its thoughts become my reality, and I can't discriminate between my own consciousness and the trance. It's not unpleasant, really. The Beast is gentle when it has my mind, but persistent. When it finally releases me, I wake up almost reluctantly, for then I must face the surface, I must rise up and take a breath, when it would be so much easier to just... drown. Easier to sink, effortlessly, than to surface and face the turmoil of choosing, differentiating between my real thoughts and the insidious, subtle influence of the trance. Easier. After the trance, easier seems important.

It knows my dilemma, my pain, and I imagine it laughing. But I don't need to imagine it, I hear it laughing. I see it smile. I know it laughs to disarm me, but it still leaves me open. Then, when it strikes, it twists me in slow imperceptible ways that I can't stop. It tells me wonderful stories. Fascinated, I listen, I watch, and all the while, relentlessly, patiently it molds me. It tells me I must conform. Of course, it doesn't want just me, it wants all of us. The more we change, the more power it has over us, and it is already very powerful. 

The Beast awakens, fixes its stare upon me, and once more I am lost in the sea of its perverted thought. My attention is focused, yet diffused throughout a world of ostentatious artifice. Reality is now outside of my experience, and I exist in a universe of synthetic imagery and illogical relationships. On some level I know this, but it doesn't help. It is not complex, the way it manipulates me. It is just carried out on such a broad front. It fills my head with inane trivialities and clichés.

My values are devolving to primal urges and egocentric callousness. I hate the person I am becoming, but I am loosing control... Control. Somehow, just now, that word seems important. Control. Something draws my attention to my own hand, I see it there, and I remember. I raise my hand, I push the button on the remote, and the Beast closes its evil eye. 

  - David Fitzjarrell, West Jordan, Utah, USA