On Pleasure, Pain, And Earthly Things

Slip

Slide

Battered

Bruised

Ahead, a wall!

or

A tapestry of legend

No,

Distraction

heaven

Popcorn on a Friday night. Tucked into the deep, warm covers of winter blankets, even if it’s 90 degrees outside. Dimmed lights, quieting the noise of the day. Turned blinds laying against one another like the shields of a fortress, encasing its escapee inside from those who would disturb its peace. Rolling film on the television that holds the eyes; a welcomed simulation that pulls one from consciousness into an unconscious role-play, playing god. Watching, judging, but stagnant.

A (first) kiss. Lips greeting another’s, pulsing with want and shaking with nerves. A way of knowing someone few will know. Living to remember is lost on a kiss. Live in it, or not at all.

Horizontal on a blanket, on the grass. Blue sky that seems to hold all the answers, but remains mum. And that’s well enough because the prickling in your back and the sweat on your chest and the glow in your skin and the call of the bird in the tree are answer enough.

A mother’s laugh. It stretches the skin around her mouth and crinkles her eyes, extracting a throaty, unbridled noise that is rarer than a good sleep and more wholesome than another’s could be.

hell

Final farewells of a loved one, friend, partner, or familiar stranger. A hole is left, leaking what once filled you to the whole.

Thought upon thought upon thought upon thought. Stampeding, pushing, fighting in the consciousness. They push against the soft tissue of the brain and create permanent grooves that itch like hell, hungry for relief and out of its reach. Medicines, machines, remedies--reminders you aren’t well.

Fate. Lack of control or free will. The reins are steered by stronger, invisible hands. Can I have him? No. Can I get this job? No. Can I eat this? Not without pulling at the skin around your thighs and hating what you see.

A dark mood on a sunny day. An imbalance that weighs on the physical, fabricated by the cerebral. Seconds feel like singular grains of sand slowly dropping in an hourglass, torturing the one who waits for the possibilities of tomorrow.

Heaven is on earth, hell is my consciousness.