Earth 57

Traveler's Log: Journey 1

Yellow Sky on blue earth sees plastic people with radioactive eyes, the pies are the sky, but the sky rains the stars on the rivers of orange soda which flows uphill to burn the leather trees into purple blood of the universe seeping into the green dirt, all while the scent of red metal shears the air into rainbow swirls of cotton candy that tastes like sand.

Pink falls into your mind as you realize your sanity is fracturing like little Humpty dumpty's little dumpy head bread said wed med lead. You can hear the sound of blue tenpins singing in harmony as the train falls toward you (in a westward direction of course). You look at your watch, to find the numbers had turned into insects, then crawled away, and the watch itself is busy trying to grow a mustache, and you suddenly feel turned around, standing upside down on the fourth wall, that exists and yet doesn't exist, while your body suddenly finds itself growing more arms, maroon arms, and your legs are suddenly accordions, and you realize you're falling balling stalling walling galling.

Left is in and up is behind you, right is down, but down is left, and while the directions shift around you, the silent music of the colors hurts your mind in a bind, wind up the toys that you realize are you and not and you realize that you had realized that realizing all of the things you have realized meant that none of the realizations you had come to were in any way really real.

Strength is an illusion, but so is weakness, and while you are wondering about the pseudophilosophic nonesense of the previous statement, you find that you had somehow activated the Interterra Relay and escaped Earth 57. Your head stops spinning, and you take a breath. Well, that was trippy.

Traveler's Log: Journey 2

This time, you're ready. You go in with a focused mind...which lasts all of about five seconds. Aardvark. Maroon cheesecakes are at your fleet feet. Colors and distorted shapes swirl around you and you think, hey, this isn't so bad. Then you realize your body has turned inside out. You gag, but realize that it is only an illusion confusion in your mind starts to form butterflies in the green sky, where the cosmic eye of the multiverse stares down at you, crying a tear of swirling galaxies preserved in amber, forever unchanging, forever smelling vaguely of pi, 3.14159265 forever in infinity, the sideways figure eight you skate on, sliding off gracefully into an ocean of stars and inky blackness. It feels like a blanket, swaddling you in numbers and circles and you realize you're beginning to hear color and see sounds, and you're vaguely okay with it stay with it play with it clay witch kit say which pit of despair and the zoo of princes and togas and bubblegum shoes.

Red Policemen of cerulean apples and blue walls of peace and the time storm is spitting you out to where you know you should have been this whole time. News zoos make new news, with insightful reporting and outblindless decamping. You see her--you know exactly who but don't know how you know you know her. She knows she knew she knows you, and greets you with a dimensional shift. Up is left behind downright suspicious if you asked Fred, who said your bread is dead, but read your head in bed instead of setting lead bedding as he should.

Fred's lame so you're bailing whaling sailing on the sine wave of time in the middle of the middle of a very confused orangutan student's exam sheet as he takes his test. We salute you Mr. Math, as you slowly drown us in integrals we really should know and why is it "we" now, and not you or me? The world melts into a puddle under your shoe gumshoe gum gun-jumping jack-a-nape ape crepe tapering tapeworm wins the debate, and you lose your shiny badge of honor. Honor badges are not everything, says the honorless Jill, who is definitely not the girl you never knew you knew from earlier curlier times, as you hear the planet breathing, its breath causing you to float into space. You fly there, wondering why the rye needed a catcher in the first place as the shiny happy universe spits you back into reality. You blink twice, realizing you are back in your home. You open your fridge to see it's a door to another world. You go through, and find it is a colossal waste of time, and activate the Interterra Relay to Re-escape Earth 57. You breathe a sigh of relief. It's over. For now.

Traveler's Log: Journey 3

Green eyes green sighs teen whys. Parties and smarties and snarkies and purple-pink pants. You’re pacing with a pane of glass trying to avoid getting smashed, but wind up drunk in a bar anyway. A bar bends around you, you try to raise it but it resisted, refused to bend to your will, your determination which determines why you even came here a third time. Why did you do that anyway, grey say whey may you ever know why you sigh in the rye of the pie? Your body is a fire, burning a bright blue and dividing like a cell, the prison that keeps you contained in the candles of your vigil which you keep over your own sanity. You weep for what is lost, not realizing that what has been gained is strained through that which was already at the center of who you are and were and ought to be.

Your shoelaces rebel, slinking away to follow their dreams to be a belt, but they end up as caterpillars that mutated into sickly grey butterflies. The sky is below you, and the ground is to your right, and you’re flying towards the whole hole above you. You’re constantly at the point of ending, right before the finish, the end result. You work harder, thinking, I can finish this, it will get there. The tension builds a building to the sky (which is currently a puddle you’re lying on), but resolution is always next Tuesday.

Justice and Truth and apple pies, you look for them and they elude you. Truth in your tooth at the root of the tree, which is your mind. Your mind, by the way, has squirrels crawling in it, trying to root through your synapses to find their nuts. Your psyche is driving away, trying to go on a vacation to escape the tyranny of trying to tell a terribly traumatic town to go to hell. Ridicule, the pieces fall apart and shatter on the page, and the center which was never there to begin with pops into nonexistence after you start to wonder whether it existed at all. Signs and signifiers, signifying the thing that is not, symbolism of seeing that which is sought out grout stout bout lout touting his own competence in the face of the infinite evidence to the contrary.

Red bedhead is a fairly yellow heroism of the idol idle side hole whole role-playing troll-paying green tire salesmen of the medieval variety, eating a turquoise-blue orange. Stripes and checkers, plaid and plain and pain and gain, sane in the membrane of the waning of the stars, which are all of us and none of us. The grand narrative is all that keeps you reading and thinking, it shines through you. Even if it never was a concrete idea, it is real because YOU make it real. The stories that we make are what make up reality, and they are better than fact: they are truth.

ANNND BAM! You’re back in your bed, wondering when you ever left. You start to forget what just happened, and are better for it.