Profane Lips

Chapter Three

In the solitude of the area and deep within every concept shivering my existence ; a sudden , violent, irregular movement in my lungs wakes me from the very state of being half-conscious , not capable of responding to external stimuli.
I open my eyes wide enough to realise that I have not passed away.
I could feel the weight of my body, the quantity of matter gradually building up to a level unbearable to a spoiled woman. I set myself a task of investigation trying to figure out the disarray in my lungs.
Unbuttoning my pullover, I started to touch various locations of my chest wondering if what I am in quest for would soon come lucid. The primary look at my white complexion assumes everything is beyond normal, typically conforming to a standard; usual, and perfectly ordered. Any of the many tiny air sacs of my lungs which permit the rapid gaseous exchange is solely fine art except for the fact that the scene of blood all over my perfections is the only blemish to what people always referred to as Mr Grey. A long stare at my naked upper limps casts me infatuated , mesmerised . I had all the vanities running through my Irish blood. A woman fairly established, shrewd , witty enough to estimate without sufficient information the motive behind each man's gesture. Though initially underweight, I had adequate flesh covering my hypnotic framework of bones. My cleavage induces a trance -like state to the beholder. To cut it short , I was a magnetic field which made men unawarely squirt . I was a whole circumference of sensual aura. I smelt sex, vanilla, Avon and kiss me like crazy perfume. Even birds swooned off an electric wire when I passed by.

I sigh upon lost youth.

I have a mixed feeling of despair, dread and reverence . After all , I am an exposed , vulnerable and susceptible lady. I pity myself. My voice serves me not on occasions of mischief and confession. There is almost no more pulmonic airstream to give out speech to the stuck words in my throat. I used to steal the light by my performance at bars. I had the voice of an angel, the words of an apostle; vibrant with love radiating passion in every heart of a cynic. My free verse was concomitant with the heart's beat of every being, rising with the rise of betrayals of love and soothing when topics of kisses and rain showered the intoxicated huddle with exultation . I was a devout adherent to art. And my entire countenance and physical presence aided me greatly in the business.

My fingers are brought in intimate contact with a hard object; not quite really an object in the full meaning of some slight material thing that can be seen and touched, but something  more of a lump causing all the turmoil in my respiratory system. The aggravation of asthma over the years makes it hard for me to detect whether I caught tuberculosis - an infectious bacterial disease characterised by the growth of tubercles- in a modern sense the development of nodules in the tissues. This is probably the best justification or interpretation if not the perfect hypothesis of the strange exacerbation of my health situation. Though, I am not a biologist ; I can sense the jeopardy of my ill-condition. How long a tuberculosis patient can live if my estimations are error free having still no medical record of  a case as severe as mine opens the gates for grand feasibility of my survival; the very state of continuing to live and exist, typically in spite of the ordeal, and difficult circumstances. Luckily, streaks of hope always shower me with  optimistic evidence that I can live up to my status.
If I would come to the conclusion of one beneficial thing in my life span, it is the fact that a surprising event is likely to occur and which indeed is neither the work of nature nor the scientific, banal , logical assumption of sound reasoning and is therefore attributed to some sort of queer divine agency I yet not believe to exist.

I try to hold my flesh together, to assemble the chaotic components of my body. I move with uneasiness each centimetre of my muscles and set myself in motion. As I meticulously adjust to leave the couch, an abrupt burst of pain strikes me petrified. A sudden gush of cortisol involuntarily triggers my survival instincts. With an overwhelming , perturbing emotion so new to me to cope with , I let loose of my fingers to the very core of my lungs almost allowing them to sink to the flesh. I wanted to remove, to extract, to take out with all the might I have this eerie compact of mass which I can scarcely recognise its nature. I have an urgent call to find a drill , just instantly grab a one out of the void encompassing my existence and start creating holes, chopping my thoracic cage, getting rid of the bones shielding the four-chambered bodily muscular organ which pumps blood to my feeble capillaries. I unexpectedly desire to exchange the luxuries of life to become a surgeon who so well and professionally knows where to cut and sew. I want my flesh to transform into a garment so I can freely trim cells as I please with not a slight feeling of pain.I visualise myself as a lame butcher, a brutal genocide perpetrator against my own components, the very elements sustaining my life.