My hands prickle at this burning sensation. Increased circulation. Ah, that’s the hormones sparking. These are fresh, exciting, remembered from a different life. To be fair, the only thing I actually know is I have never come this way before. Always backing away when I longed to try it. And now, here we are. What’s next?
Possible collapse. But, that was impending – either way.
So it tends to go.
Another state of mind is another option. One in which days, not sensations slip away. The pressure is beginning to build in a very subconscious way. Like an alarm that’s been going off in another room for weeks now. It must be incredibly persistent.
Of course it is. This is the perpetual shame we live by. An incessant nagging in the back of our minds that we will never make it. Death is close. Have you closed your eyes today? Should you try?
In that hollow ghost house, I had this moment; call it a vision.
I laid flat on my back in the bedroom. Middle of the night. The moon glowed in through the window while wind rustled its frame like it always did. Sweat was pouring down my back, soaking into the sheets. The blankets were oppressive, but every tiny movement sent these ice cold chills across my aching skin. My heart was pounding all uneven in my chest. And as I lay there, the only thing I could think was this:
“I’m going to die now. I just know it. There’s no way out. This is it.”
And all I did was lay there thinking – how strange that is. Oh bem ikedo, though. It comes to us all, I suppose.
Strangely, you had the same thought – laying down one night and shutting your eyes.
I’m not sleeping, I’m dying.
And we were, weren’t we doce?
In one way, we were bursting into flames. First charcoal, one hundred percent carbon – then all ash. In another way, dying so very slow. Decaying, being eaten alive by the unavoidable. The aggressive bacteria in that spoiled starter were just the start of it. The teasing spirits tried, wanted, scrabbled to be the end.
Oh, but we ran away and tricked them before they got to us.
Now we drink a lot of wine and have drunk fights at night over silly things. We play a lot of games, and some of them – we have this inclination – might be dangerous. We go about everything infected from that old virus still, but flushing it out with rain and this chill whipping wind in our face. When we push hard, we break through.
We always knew.
And here, the return of others in our lives makes us alive and uncomfortable.
I, for one, am not the easy-going careful-crafted butterfly I was when we left. Some dark shadow over came that one and subsumed it. From that darkness, I have been trying to pull myself. The dark of winter cast another shadow, overshadowing the former. A heavy, dry coat of insufficiency is what I found there in the boxes and the corners of that place.
I also learned to let go in a way I’ve never tested.
Will I feel tension, angst, fear and failure over this too?
Ah, how easy is it open more doors when the ones opened are still complicated?
No, but I’ve accepted the complications. They aren’t fading away. What can and will is my perception of them as problematic.
Fenugreek told me to grow some tougher skin. I’ve decided to try.
Pin this aggression on me and push it ’til it cracks.
Failure, like the winter, is inevitable.
And if I keep recalling that, I can break the desperation in the end.
Or, die trying. Of course.