My breathing is constricted and my heart is cold. I have known all along, so why is my breathing constricted and my heart cold? It is late afternoon and the hunger that had been building inside me since 10 in the morning has now demised tragically. I rejected a momo lunch, a rash decision influenced by emotional unstability which i will regret later, but the point is, that's how upset I am.
Oh crap! I'm tearing up now.
The chill has spread to the pit of my stomach and filled the void in there, and my fingers have turned a strange hue of blue. The same blue that tints the face of the dead. The screen is blurring before me, and lines are merging into the other. I have been disturbed by the obvious, a silent truth we knew. But the truth is made of stuff so potent, the effect of which is catalysed when voiced and then life is white. A red stain seeps onto the pristine canvas, as a thousand pins puncture my heart.
Three days later.
My fingers have regained their colour and the pit of my stomach is warm and replete. My heart now feels like a frozen hunk of lamb with puncture marks that ache every time I sigh and a slight yellowing that comes with every aging bruise. I have now touched a comfortable numbness and it's good. Well, it is not a place i would voluntarily want to be in, but it's good.
The feeling is almost baptismal, not in the religious admission of Jesus Christ as God kind of way, but in a metaphorical sense. Relinquishment of the old life I knew and acceptance of a new life I have to know. So after a few too many angsty songs and regaining conrol over my lachrymal tendencies I can say with confidence, "I'm all over it now, I can't say how glad I am about that."
Oh crap! I'm tearing up now.
The chill has spread to the pit of my stomach and filled the void in there, and my fingers have turned a strange hue of blue. The same blue that tints the face of the dead. The screen is blurring before me, and lines are merging into the other. I have been disturbed by the obvious, a silent truth we knew. But the truth is made of stuff so potent, the effect of which is catalysed when voiced and then life is white. A red stain seeps onto the pristine canvas, as a thousand pins puncture my heart.
Three days later.
My fingers have regained their colour and the pit of my stomach is warm and replete. My heart now feels like a frozen hunk of lamb with puncture marks that ache every time I sigh and a slight yellowing that comes with every aging bruise. I have now touched a comfortable numbness and it's good. Well, it is not a place i would voluntarily want to be in, but it's good.
The feeling is almost baptismal, not in the religious admission of Jesus Christ as God kind of way, but in a metaphorical sense. Relinquishment of the old life I knew and acceptance of a new life I have to know. So after a few too many angsty songs and regaining conrol over my lachrymal tendencies I can say with confidence, "I'm all over it now, I can't say how glad I am about that."
