What happens when You have to wear six personas at once?
Is it not stuffy ?
Is it not warm?
Can I breathe?
Can you breathe?

AH Fhuckit.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that we don't grow man... the old model of reality and maturity isn't real, oh hasn't been real, or prolly we've mutated since that Dickensian coming of Age crap. The fin-de-siecle deal is this: We never had grown, we mutate, we encapsulate we branch out, but we've never really "grown" or matured.

Doozy, I know, but gimmie a few quick secs and I'll set you on the straight. Lissen, this is an idea I've been tossing around, see if it's tight enough for ya....

I figured we are all still the lil' boy and grrl that we've always been and the moment when we realize that we've grown up (call it the first game-sport that we miserably screwed up and lose it for the team, or the shit hits the fan and we realized that mom and pops ain't waiting in the wings going to tarzan-swoop us to safety, and we have to face the organ-grinder); we just realize how small and unprepared and how much we wanna hightail it outta there and cry our nuts off. the proverbial shit-storm... maybe you got a natty voice-over like that silly "Wonder Years" show (okay, for you kids who dunno what that was about, google it aiight?), but it basically is the moment when self talks to self:

"Self, this is bogus. This is a shit storm and I can't wait for the nappie patrol to come sop it up, it's me and the pile in my pants and we gotta 'deal' right now"

"Damn but I don't wanna clean up the shit, it's too hard!!"

"you gotta, Self, cuz no one's there for ya this time, it's about right to do it yourself"

Wham-Bham. Grown-up time.

But the funny thing is this... we don't magically become some one new. MOre often than not, we're still the thumb sucking toddly who still wants some one to clear our mess, but we know peeps are sick of doing that for us. they want us to do it for ourselves now.

That's when we start talking to ourselves and reasoning our situations. That's when we "grow-up" ... only that we didn't grow. We kinda mutated, we kinda split into two like an aemoeba inside our head. We have the Mr "potty trained" on one side, and we have Mr. "i crap my pants" on the other. It's 2 voices in our head(s).

This means that everytime we face a shit storm, Mr "I crap my pants" will be the first to be caught with his pants down. He surveys the situation, dies alittle & cries alot, and he splits up inside, and a new voice comes out to handle the situation, and basically becomes the pro-fixer for that brand of shit.

I know that when I go concrete surfing, it's "Mr Wheelies" on the job, until I sudden have to stop because of Pigs with sticks and sudden the "Artful Dodger" comes out and chill the vibe; wrappin the cool around me, going all pedestrian until the oinkherd passes by. Cuz' the survival tip that Arty Dodgie whisper's this: BIG SCARY trouble can sniff you out if you got fear leaking out of you, but when the other voce takes over, it's like they are in their natural element, the previous voice don't matter.

Samething with you boys and grrls, at home you're mommie's and daddie's little champs and princesses, outside you maybe the bad asses. Older Grumps will see you as the Newbs, and you got a voice for each of these echoing walls.

It's all well and good. Sometimes you maybe conscious and other times it's on instinct mode. But what happens when worlds collide? Suddenly you have mr "i crap in my pants" caught between two worlds, how do you deal? Normal peeps feel awkward and stuff, but how do you Be when one face slides off, to reveal another mask?

Or as my main babe, Siouxie, once canterizes:

"Face to Face-no telling lies
the masks they slide - to reveal a new disguise
You never can win - it's the state i'm in
this danger thrills and my conflict kills
they say follow your heart - follow it through
but how can you -when your'e split in two?"

And that's just for the "2 worlds in 1 space" motif... what happens when you have six? Do you crash? the caco-phony in your head will just about come across as a Carmen Burana freakin G(r)eek chorus, boys and grrls. FLaming roll of toilet paper launched against a dark inadequate sky full of sparkling faux pas like immovable constellations... that is until you move away... cuz it's always you that do the moving and not the constellation, you re(e)volve around the shit around you, not the other way.

So there, you see, you become this scary processor thing that has branches and sub-routines that can function independently on their own, even though their main objectives are to ironically maintain the cohesiveness of the original programme. crashing the site happens when you have too many sub-programmes flying all at once. And perhaps the only way is to reboot -- but there're no guarantees... you may just float in a limbo-coma.

Now one last pickle before I turn off the light:

Back to the constellation of faux-pases and the shit-storms... they occur in some universal interval... ticking off according to some jokster rhythmn -- do they find you like a gag-resultant bad pizza delivery or do you purposely seach them out and crash into them like suicidal moths and pyromaniacal bugs hell bent on self-immolation? I think we do. Cuz we are not meant to mutate like this, we freakin wanna kill that voice in our heads... but the paradox might be this, what happens if we don't die in that fire? What happen if a new voice phoe-nixing its damage control arse right out of the con-flag-a-ration? So we're not ending, but instead only not dying & mutating further?

Don't sell me that line about sincerity or nietzchean steamin'-bull-pie of what don't kill ya makes you more steroided, because we all do it. we don't know it but we all do it. We split like psychic aemoeba.

A bunch of grey programming sub-routines
or sub-route-tines
sub-ways-forks
under-way splits
hidden roads of the mind, boys and grrls.
wonder if i can surf that mental asphalt, and in the meantime the voce rides in a multi-aspectual reality, changing from an Ollie to a darkslide in midair.