Almost There

Refracted through the cracked windshield of a speeding psychic convertible, swerving through hyperspace with a trunk full of ether and bad intentions— —and that’s where the vision hit me. Not like inspiration. No. More like a back-alley mugging with metaphysics. It didn’t arrive gently. It barged in, ransacked my memory palace, pissed on the curtains of logic, and whispered, “You summoned me, didn’t you?” Almost there? Ha! I was there. I was the there. I was the vibrating fog between symbols. The space between the blink and the seeing. And that’s when it looked through me—not with grace, not with divine benevolence, but like a cosmic customs officer rifling through my luggage, pulling out insecurities, karmic debt, and half-finished ideas wrapped in delusion. I wasn’t drawing the vision—I was being exorcised by it. You think you’re in control. You think you’re the artist. Nah. You’re the meat relay. The vision is the parasite. It latches on, puppets your bones, hijacks your fingers, and starts sketching out things you’ve never seen but somehow remember. You want to channel the infinite? Cool. Strap in. It doesn’t come with seatbelts or trigger warnings. It comes with vertigo and the overwhelming sense that you were just a temporary vessel for something older than language and high on its own geometry. “Almost there,” I muttered again. A stupid phrase. Like reality has a finish line. As if arrival was the point. The vision just laughed—a high-pitched, multidimensional cackle that made my teeth itch—and said, “You’re not almost there. You’re infinitely unready.”