Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Mornings. Cold, sudden, and all-around a tumble down an especially jagged mountainside.
The thoughts come yet again with each passing one. They have no actual weight, besides the distress of hearing them once more. Knowing full well I am above them, yet still aching from having to read through them once more.
Considering that I am not bothered by the issues beyond a mere state of annoyance, I have a strong suspicion that they are but one of the many attempts by my former self to leech any newfound consciousness out of my skull, spitting it out like gummy chewing tobacco on the concrete. It's a single remnant of who I became; an unrealistic, unmoral dreamer, set with his sights not for the stars... but for everyone else's.
At the risk of narcissism; a criticism I've never felt truly held water, especially considering the human traits of individuality; I must say, it can be dark at the top. When one feels as though they have severed an irradiated, disgusting extra limb, one also feels the sting from the slice. They have removed the cancerous extremity, but they can't help but reminisce on the oh-so fun days of being a deformed mutant.
Yearning for the days of old, when disease had your fate sealed with a kiss. For when your constant therapies were truly only in support of the sickness, perpetuating it further. The depressing nostalgia of seeing that illness fester within you, batting at your unwilling flesh with each opportunity... ignoring it's pain, hoping perhaps one day it'd simply float off. And, of course, the longing to imagine one's self, now clean and healthy, as simply another dying patient.
We miss being dead when we have risen. We miss the limb, because we have decided to let ourselves believe it was a natural being. As it lays upon the sterile medical floor, rotting, oozing, we wince at it's true form. Without our giving blood, it reveals it's true self. Purple, bruised... only a matter of seconds, and it has morphed into the limb of a person long dead. Perhaps we were the one thing keeping this parasite palatable.
As it shrivels and shrinks before our offput eyes, we must accept that the extremity we once had was no more than the grotesque corpse we now see writhing. It's significance to us was masked by a veil of ignorant acceptance, making us desperate to love it's presence - for our own sake. Now that we are free, however, our blood recirculates once more; for the first time in far too long, it crosses our entire being, no longer being siphoned into the louse we once carried. As it grows crusted to the linoleum, we turn and walk from it; it's sizzling and popping fading into the void as we nonchalantly return to the lobby, and into the sunlit day.
The sting fades as the air of the clean, bright world paints a layer of warm honey over it. Our ghosts pass on to another, as we breathe in the springtime mists. The horrific death we have just witnessed is no more than a mere inconvenience, now; as we rev the engine and push the gas, the wind in our hair shakes free the shamefully imbecilic tendencies of our old selves.
No boogeyman can suction the darkness back into your mind as you zoom past 60; No demon can grab your wrist and leave you scalded. You are the holy driver; and now, it's time to high-tail it to the next destination.
And, as you reach your airport, receive your ticket, and hit the skies, you shall never see the twisted world far behind and beneath you again. The sky's the limit, and you've only just began your flight.