Capricious

11 - La Petite Mort

"Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish."
-  Chuck Palahniuk

I'm reaching for, and finding more than ever before.

Harsh blood flow churning, of superiority, of luck and some basic skill, triumph against peers. And the bonded similarities in doing so, the memories joined, the lush gratifying sprinkle in the brain and the whipped vanilla cream of the corpse unlived in. For now, for what was stupid fear, this will make do. This I will build against weakness. For this I can make my own strength besides, create anew a knowledge, and become it whole.

Up smooth down rapids, a water slide, just for my breast. Face wobbling in warm liquid under plastic sheets.

As I breathe, I feel the oxygen polluting, clearing my lungs, it branches and sects like roots of a willow tree, white and pure. That pure pain of bliss set deep inside me. Tendrils flaming, ascending from without. Choking dust. Possessed by memory's characters of times left behind. Peanut butter space-shuttle cones, ending at my jaw. Strange old taste, where have you come from?

Intoxicating breaths of sleep deprived energy, colliding again and again with sound fuelled waves against my departed body. Did that really just happen?

Hollow flashing circles stretching violet light. Swallowed up in a ricochet of worlds both illustrious and dissolving.

Hours dead in the wilderness free. Now sandwiched between trips in magnificent days or shoreless nights. Where did everything go? Not long and the act will jump through the hoop again, settling accounts of mess and souvenirs left behind. Nothing of consequence talks me through whatever stage I dance. I thought it did not matter here, but it does. Is this the end? I'm not ready. I have to keep going somehow. I guess I am subject to exhaust all things, at least until time brushes them again. I must move on, break the rules, not care so much. Everything I think of. Opportunity and patience. I will be hit again. That I never doubt.

Have I dived into a waterfall? Nothing seems real. Living by a normal day possessed with an abnormal dreamy fright of senseless sleep. I'm not quite sure how I came here, how I am making decisions, forever in a mind removed of feeling. Lying detached, sleeping detached, dreaming detached. I need no body. Destroying routine and lasting forces, apparent to missing times where nothing is known, why not? Distant clouds now casting shadows, but never as upfront and possessing as the past. What is happening? Tell me. I can barely speak. Am I afraid of letting go, what world does my conscious self inhibit? Times are changing. I will make sure of that. I can't remain destroyed forever.

Immune to every hit. Dying here. Nothing strikes me down no matter how far I take it. I'm pleading. Please, let me be trapped again. I can't bear it. I can't live how I want. Doomed to drift in peripheral visions. Why so? I'm scared. Fog lifts from my eyes and I jump straight into it. It carries me along, scenery amidst the bridges, but then it falls, coasts away from thence, mind rising, body falling, never belonging together. This is my mind now, and it weeps what I can't, scars of that nothing clinging to shades. The curtain calls. The drum bursts. Curved way too often. I need not have to see to feel. I am beyond. I am becoming lost. Sharing the only thing that keeps me whole, seeing it ignored, misunderstood, it breaks me apart. Chasing mind. Chains shake. I'm not even sure I know what I mean any more. All I am is metaphor. I do not exist for my own sake. I grow to fade. For there is no serious reality that I can melt into from above. Latching unconvincingly, despairingly, pitifully. I need something. Fantasies thence of a past, yet I have outgrown them. I am too mature for such soothing. Time to resist, to force a consideration, to build enough for foreign worlds of the future, to be appropriately hypnotised in the short periods I exist.

What I was, gone. Everything is rougher. Dreams simplified, buried in graveyards. What arises is the sensation of breathing beauty. Inhaling deep,exhaling hard, fast, through and through. Something still inside these.Writhing storms of energy awaiting explosion and creating explosion anew. All forms. I just have to find my weapon and my audience. Where could either be?