Corpses for anguish, Coils for insanity

Your eyes are open and you stand awake. Lucid. Yet the fragments of your nightmares blind your vision and consume you whole.

How do you focus? How do you concentrate?

The room is small. A desk and three chairs. A bed rests next to a window or a wall. You remember few details. You sit infront of her, always the left chair... and you talk to her impassive face that neither comforts you nor disturbs you. You welcome the stoicity. Somehow that makes it easier.

The room outside is bright and rows of chairs are lined by the wall. One chair has a sign that says "Don't sit on me" with a sad face doodled underneath it. You stare at it for longer than you should.

Children's artwork are displayed on a board. Faceless women sit behind a large counter and they avoid your eyes. Perhaps they know. Do you care? No. Not really. Hell with what people think.

She beckons for you to start so you indulge her. Drawl on and on about September and the hells you walk through every year to get past this cursed month. She interrupts you often today. Tells you things you don't want to hear. Perhaps she's right but you don't want to accept it. Perhaps she's wrong and you are right. Perhaps you do deserve it all. Who the fuck knows? Repentance has been ignored in every shape and form it could possibly be ignored in. 

You drone on about minute corpses and obsidion coils with livid scarlet slits. How you are paralysed in sleep when those thick wet coils slither and slap against you like a lover. How terrified you lie when it hisses loudly in your ear. How it haunts you when the corpses open their eyes and out slither thin strands of serpents that entangle themselves around lifeless limbs and feast while you watch. How those nightmares torture you while you stand awake with flashes that interrupt your vision in translucent layers.

She gives you a form, tells you to fill it out. For next week, she says. Something about mindfulness apps and yoga and replacing thoughts or images or some shit or the other. Your head is swimming with detached thoughts. Your brain feels slushy. Slushy. Slushy is a funny word. Does it mean what you think it means? Strange. No. Sluggish. Yes. That is the word. What does slushy even mean?

You walk home in a daze again. The first time you almost walked into a car. Your eyes focus on the puddles again. Reflected blinking neon lights. Nothing soothes you today, though. You come home and your room is a prison and you sit on the floor, immobile. 

She leaves you alone today. You don't really care anymore. You just sit here, mulling over exit strategies in your head. There is nothing and no one. Only the merry-go-around of chaos you are consumed by and the one question that plagues you every minute of every damned day. 

What IS the point of it all?

Moments

It scares me, how brief those moments are. Moments that don’t even last long enough for me to let my guard down and fully comprehend the magic in them. Moments, that despite their abruptness or insignificance in the grand scheme of things, resonate loudly within my cognizance and linger for decades in the darkened corners of my consciousness, glowing within every now and then whenever my mind strays in a mundane meeting or in those moments of quiet contemplation. I crave those moments because they revive me from the numbness that I am consumed by.

My best friend and I sat at “Thinn Ruhh Park” one cold night, chilled by a slight drizzle, watching streaks of lightening slice open the sky above Villingili. Lightning and thunder, phenomena that used to frighten me to my very core, they thrill me now. I welcomed that thrill that day. It crept up the sides of my face and disappeared into my scalp, leaving a trail of tingling skin. I felt no cold. I felt no fear. Only exhilaration.

A tiny hand in mine and a warm little head resting on my chest, low breathing and soft skin that comforts my own. I sat on the sofa watching Ponyo while he lay asleep in my lap, finally quiet. I nibbled at his cheeks and cuddled his chubby little frame. Few things in life feel that pure and comforting.

I lay on a beach one warm afternoon, komorebi on my skin, shades over my eyes, iPod in hand and a soul sister beside me. Erykah Badu and Stephen Marley’s “In love with you” crooned in my ear while I watched the sunlight gleaming in the liquid horizon. Of all the beaches and all the afternoons I lay on them, this one stands out because in that instant, I completely forgot the world. Completely.

Great tales and excellent television, they make me forget all the horrors of this world. Fantasy, in particular. I tend to immerse myself in them, blocking out the white noise that surrounds me. In all honesty, I feel more alive when I’m watching One Piece or Game of Thrones than I do when I’m among people. I engage, I laugh and I am present in that moment when I am with people but a rather large chunk of my consciousness is numb. But not when I’m reading a good book or watching a good show. They rouse the part of me that feels anesthetized.

One night, a friend and i jogged in that would be industrial zone, venturing further inside simply for the hell of it, my paranoia escalating whenever I saw a group of men huddled in the dark. I have a very unhealthy fear of being groped or worse, which I assure you, are for valid reasons. Anyway, we came upon this area of dug earth that was glowing a vivid red from the streetlights on our left. What caught our eyes wasn’t the colour but the pool of water surrounded by those jagged and sharp mounds of red earth much like the terrain of Mars, as shown in movies. It lay pristine and glistening with the reflection of the stars above us. And so we stood at the edge of a world and gazed into the abyss, mesmerized. Far away from here.

I love rain. I truly do. And I like to drive around after it rains. The chill in the air, the sensation of raindrops on my skin and the vivid green of trees after a shower, they make me smile. I feel a static crackling inside me when it rains, like I am tuned to the sound of falling water. After sundown, the puddles reflect the neon signs on store windows. Sometimes I stand still and look at them and feel my brain flare up. A few weeks ago I walked home in the rain after a particularly brutal day and somehow, I wound up frozen on the pavement, transfixed by the reflected lights. Red, white and green. For a brief few seconds, I felt my body come alive and within that period, I felt consoled.

Conversations. Contradictions. Laughter. The feel of soft silky hair between my fingers. The image of eyes that crinkle in the corner. The sensation of hands that cradle my face and stroke my hair. The feel of eager lips on mine, soft and absolving. And the amber of the fairy lights that encase and warm us during these moments, they revive me.

And as short lived as they are, as few and far between as they may be, those moments leave a significant impression. Perhaps I perceive them to be more extraordinary than they really are. Perhaps the certainty of an expiration date makes all of it seem more wonderful than it really is. Perhaps it is simply what Homer stated, that everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. Perhaps that is all it is. I don’t really care.

Because those moments in life that create an impact on my subconscious are rare. And those moments, those brief glitches in time and space that actually allow me to rid my mind of my truth and all that it entails, they make me feel alive. And i would do anything to feel alive.