Signal

A general feeling

often passes like a car

making its signal

and taking its appropriate lane.

It stays there, stationary, waiting for the green light,

Before dissolving into movement again.

The laws of physics allow the vehicle to turn,

The eyes focus on the direction,

The hands do as they're told by the mind

The body, itself, feels like it's swung onto another vine

From which the jungle becomes thicker and clouded in more doubt

Than ever before.

Somehow, the pace of the feeling quickens.

There is pleasure in it; your toes are tingling in fact.

Your breaths are trying to absorb it like a sponge absorbs water.

Your body's orchestra plays a tune to which adrenaline and oxytocin

Synchronize delightfully.

Suddenly, you no longer feel like yourself.

It's not a lie, and you certainly know you're still on Earth.

But yet, somehow, the feeling that passes through you,

Begins to disentegrate you.

You're not being eaten alive, there's no need to panic.

Just turn the signal back on,

And you'll find your way home again.