Fat like fudge and so heavy
it weighs down your
shoulders like
boulders.
The thick pages of ink
spattered with bits
of this and
that
become the burden that
you thought you
could have
handled.
Thick and suffocating, not
unlike being underwater,
but it isn’t as
quick
to die in. As if it’s torturing
your mind and soul
and slowly
pulling
you
down.
Death is horrifying because it is inevitable and utterly final. It is the natural culmination of every embodied being, no one can live on forever.
I guess I sort of wished for a longer time to be spent with you, but your frail little body tells me there’s not much time left in you. You wheeze when you breathe, your whole body shaking in my hands. You try meekly to climb out of your cage, to search for something new to play with, but your body fails you and you think to yourself: maybe another time.
But that’s just it isn’t it? There isn’t much time left.
Have you ever floated on the surface of the ocean, hearing the water lapping gently at the side of your head.
Your eyes are closed and all you think about is…. Nothing.
You drift along with the waves, feeling the sun kissing your skin as your body is pushed farther and farther away from shore.
Perhaps it is the only time you won’t mind drifting, the relaxing moment where your mind is blank and that you hear only the waves, you feel the cool of the ocean and the heat of the sun.
Drifting slowly to the nowhere, with nothing on your mind.
In the night you can hear everything.
When you lie down to sleep, you feel the deep boom that echos in your chest, the beat that we like to call life.
What makes us different from the dead?
The pulse.
The feeling of blood rushing through our veins and back again into the heart.
And the contraction of those muscles that push forward not only our blood, but our lives.
The steady rhythm that we can never mute, the fluttering pace when our eyes met, the racing speed of the ‘boom, boom, boom’ when fear hits us…
This is what makes us human.
There’s this tingling feeling at the surface of your skin, you try very hard not to think about it. But during the process of not think about it, you do.
The itch seems to grow, this little voice calling your fingers to scratch and tear at the cells of your skin.
“Dig in, Dig in..”
The itch grows stronger and summons your hand to move involuntarily towards that itchy patch.
“Itchy, Itchy..”
The nails just scrape the skin gently, and then it turns into a mad rage.
You claw, you dig, you feel like you’re trying to excavate the old fossils of a dinosaur.
Then it stops, and all that is left is the pain that you feel after clawing at yourself.
La Muse 