Take 4 parts physics, 2 parts marketing, 16 parts music, 11 parts writing, and what do you get? A whole lot of parts would be one answer. Omer Wahaj is an amalgamation of all these and more: an independent journalist/writer and a part-time musician currently living in Toronto. He has written several short stories and is currently working on a few humorous/satirical novels. Omer occasionally DJs and has produced an eclectic mix of music in various genres of electronica. He also enjoys being an illeist. Follow Omer on Twitter @omerwahaj
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Neuropea Part III
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Read Part I and Part II of this series here and here.
As long as they keep giving me what I do not want, they can continue to dig that grave right outside my window.
I walk through a barrage of people, bumping into each one as they pass me by. With every touch, I feel what they are feeling. Completely. You would be surprised at the number of people in transit through this place at any given time of the day, week, month, and so on.
I am furious that I didn’t have the swordfish. They say it makes you angry when you eat it.
I try to look at the night sky with one of my eyes shut. Even though I see nothing with just my left eye open, ten million galaxies descend into my closed right eye. I can see each and every star and stars with planets inhabited by all sorts of alien life forms. But the picture is mono; some would say two-dimensional. Three-dimensional stereo is only possible with couples.
I can’t write poetry anymore. But red Andalusian sunrises.
A man sits in the dark, guitar in hand, calling attention to his façade. A mariachi. People gather around him. They wait for him; it seems he’s ready to burst into song any moment now. He keeps tuning the guitar for the next twenty thousand years.
They call it their Zion. For me, it’s the Matrix. I am not ready to return to my Zion. Not just yet.
An invisible woman passes me by. She sits on a bench next to a man; both man and bench are made completely out of newspaper. The headline reads, “No es país para galgos.”
They bring food to me in complete darkness. The only sense I have left is taste. Campari is awful.
The ground shakes. It’s an earthquake brought upon by an enraged cenobite. The cannibalistic King cooked the cenobite’s brother in a broth and fed it to him. Some people ask him if they should be worried about ghosts. He says they should be more worried about robbers.
The last train station was built on the ruins of a ten thousand year old civilization. Not spooky. Sad.
On the beaches quite close to my home, lives the Emperor of the Sea. He is the one they call when they are caught in strong wave-formed storms. He appears in white clothes with a white beard and only the simple people can see him.
I swear to the veracity of this truth. If I have lied, let fire burn down my house if I’m at home, asleep in my bed; let my train derail and be destroyed when it’s traveling at hundreds of kilometers an hour; let my boat capsize if I’m at sea and stuck in a storm; let me eat bullet-ridden corpses or swim in boiling blood of my fellow citizens when I become a ghost.