He moved into a data shelter, an underground bunker, his computer in the corner a station, a world in itself with rivets on the door. A metal door. One at the back and one at the front. It was not completely a prison, for he was docked at the Internet.
Yes, free to explore whatever he wanted or liked about the medium. He was recently graduated from art school; he could not find work. He was a starving artist. There are many ways to starve other than not taking in food. Starve, socially. Starve mentally. Starve spiritually. He did starve socially, of these three, but not the other two. For he had academic ethic.
He walked to the park often, to get away from the place.
It was a lovely path, quick through the alleyway and to the end of the street. There was a cobble stone house, and a paved recreation trail for joggers, bicyclists, inline skaters, and skateboarders. Smooth, newly paved, it lead to the park he loved to visit at all hours of the night where he lay in the grass and dreamt of having all the friends he wanted.
The park was in the Middle of the city and so he felt a kind of out-of-body experience to detect wifi or cellphone or satellite signals in the air. Not to possess them telepathically, but to be aware of their presence whether they were there.
He was there in the day.
Night came.
The Aurora Borealis was beautiful and it was an angel to him. He knew several angels but this one was the most beautiful. How could he feel lonely in the presence of an Angel? Her name was gold-lettering, he wondered. She was large, comfort inducing, giving my of much time. Giving to me.
White and Red.
And he lived like this for over a year. Was he happy? For he had what he wanted: artistic license, smiling on a ramp, dreams about a son he would one day raise. A blue Naenaeon.
A nightlight. A nae nae.
Aurora Borealis.
Light in the soul. Neon in the soul. The Middle between them. Color of this.
Alone every day was worse than being mentally ill. He suffered terribly. Everything was orange and he was dead. He was in the bedroom, on the bed like a corpse. He was stopped on the staircase. His legs. For they hurt so bad, and his pelvis was empty.
He walked to the park every day, having made art, every day. God was not the plant surrounding a bench that he lay on, God was the empty presence. It felt like what it would have to be an empty presence. God and I suffered together, he thought. Did I know she was teaching me to float?
But he was not happy for he lacked one thing.
A boyfriend.
Love is breathless, he thought.
Time to let it catch its breath, for I know virtues greater.
And should we practice them we may gain.
Who will be my partner? he questioned. I am a lonely lost boy and my art is not valued by anyone.
Then the police came to the door. He didn't understand why they were there. He showed them his art, and told them he was of a different culture than them. They misunderstood his intent. So he chased them away.
They were fools.
The landlord, it turned out, had been the one who called them. To see if everything was okay.
There were strange reports of a light on in the basement, and an inhabitant who could be seen and heard through the window conducting evil seminars with himself.
The reports, it turned out, had been from a cat.
So the inhabitant went to the bar, alone. He had no name. Nobody knew him.
He ate and drank.
He took care of his legs, bathing in warm water every day.
He told his brother over the telephone that he wanted to kill himself.
The police took him to the hospital.
He was diagnosed.
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