Custardhat

"What is the meaning of this incongruity?" I said, as I sat on the throne, staring at the eternal light of the frozen supernova.

 

I knew, of course, that under normal circumstances, this would not be good for my eyes - but 'frozen' = 'cold,' right? I knew it to be true, so it was true.

 

Nothing was true.

 

The light shifted - just a fraction of a portion of a quantum of an indiscernible unit of space and time. With a momentary feeling of whiplash, healed by thoughts of its nonexistence, I shifted my gaze and immediately set to the consideration of the metaphysical reality of metaphor.

 

My throne was not a throne. It was not a toilet. It was the idea of a seat, upon which I was perched, surveying my kingdom. I am not a king, have never been a king, will never be a king - but at that moment, the infinity of my subjective experience bowed down before me and crowned me with the intense existence of its reality.

 

The seat fizzled, popped, strained, excreted the unidimensional lassitude of its tenacity. The ignominious consequences nibbled excruciatingly at the frayed event horizon of my narcissism, eventually culminating in the fecal psychotropic resonance of egomaniacal delusion, which only served to remind me that my present state of inhumanity could not be dispersed, derailed, detonated or demonised by conscious neuronal redistribution alone. So I took off my hat and filled it with custard.