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“We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”[my art blog dedicated to everyday muses]
Europe might as well be Europa.
That maddening feeling of hating anything and everything you see, can see, touched, influenced or created, uttered or even thought.
-dot tumblr dot com
-is the perfect band name
-or album name
-or art-exhibit-of-black-and-white-upskirt-photos name
-the perfect angry-asian-riot-grrrl-band name
-is just the most beautiful words
I don’t know whether its brain chemicals or hormones or faulty wires fritzing synapses shorting nerves circuits and all this static mess making this blackout, stumbling around in my own head. Theres that split second shock when the lights go out and you freeze in an uncertain void, you forget body and breath and bearing and a hand shoots out forward, you know for certain you feel forward but you might as well be nowhere. There isn’t a mouth for your voice to escape and even though you yell you’re not sure if it was ever your voice.
Its like that submarine quiet, that underwater murmur of nothing and pulse. Looking out and up into the light but hearing nothing but blood beating into your own ears, if you held your breathe long enough you can almost hear it crushing you, almost feel yourself crumpling.
And I tell myself light a match, call out, float to the top and haul yourself over the slippery chrome steps and you’ll be fine. They say, let it out, get out from there, don’t hide don’t bury don’t drown don’t stay still and quiet. Say something. Reach up.
If I could I would float up and be gone flicker to light and fade, snuffed out. There is no light for me here unless you puncture through, blow through the walls inside my skull and around my brain and beneath my eyes, no air unless you tear my lungs and rip my throat, the tube goes down the esophagus to make an emergency passage, do so as a last resort. I wish it were as easy as opening and shutting the door, pulling the plug, but there’s only been a wall and plaster and brick and tiles a floor and cement and rock and gravel underneath.
Its just hard sand and saltwater and grit and heat all this choking heat blinding light burning white white white they say don’t rub your eyes don’t rub so hard but I see nothing I see white I see dark and flashing spots I see red and white and black and empty space infinite and flat I see a blur and two feet toes curled in I see fingers nails digging into palms I see saltwater grit and scabs I pick and pick and there’s a red bead blooming small then bigger and bigger till it rolls off my skin I feel hot and cold and shivering impossible and yet like a fever it shivers it shakes.
Let me plant a seed beneath, my love
Let it grow on the food of my tears, my love
Let it flourish on every sweet word,my love
Let it rip through the wooden beams, my love
Let it tear down the walls of this house
Look its a disease its a condition its a heart-stopping force like a fever or a tide or the earth’s gravity or stars colliding. Its inertia, inevitable. Its water seeking the lowest level, mercury splitting then rushing forming joining whole and new again. Its the rain then the heat then the thirst and parched earth then the clouds then the rumble of a storm and then we are wet again. Its rocks to gravel to dirt to diamonds to just plain old rocks again. Its soil to flesh to skin to bones to blood and back to soil. Its light then pain then breath then sweet dark sleep. Like minutes ticking and ticking and fading with the batteries. I can’t stop it and don’t want to try.
That sticky cool feeling splashed across my skin, almost touching my lips. Spreading, slick and creamy, I want this all over me. This wonderful tension as I feel it growing firmer, willing me not too move an inch. I struggle to control my impulses as the hold on my flesh grows and I fight the urge to flinch. That wonderful anticipation for that moment, pulling away, but no I want more of this feeling, so raw and exposed and tingling from this touch.
This explosive feeling… of pulling the peel-off face mask off in one piece.
I’m not used to being this something, this person in your eyes. I’m not used to suddenly worrying about skin and flesh and bone and clothes and words and thoughts and how I should feel and what I should feel and what I should say. I’m not used to trying to explain this mess in my head. It never used to matter so much except deep inside that now in the daylight I don’t recognize it at all and I don’t know how to cope.
This is tiring this feeling of not quite there enough to be happy, not lost enough to be truly tragic, not fully awake, not blind enough to stay asleep, not quite manic, not quite depressive, not moving, not staying still, not here, not there. And its so hard to explain or admit coz you’re not on an edge here, but you aren’t on solid ground either. I’m not really anywhere.