I feel this opposition towards some cowering feeling. Left reeling. Somewhere fleeting. Caught in a drift and suddenly I find myself in the sewer drain. This emptiness. All that work and I can’t quite bring myself to a sense of satisfaction. Only this echo. She reverberates at unknown frequencies.
Sometimes the pressure builds so profusely, I feel as if the slightest semblance of fire could breathe; erupting at my very own ears as if my body blew its skullcap on its own accord.
The Art of the Fire-Breathing skull, we’ll call it that. Like dragons dancing and twirling. Swiftness in the air, every element covered. Resolutions on their way, and you can hope that I’ve got time left over after dinner to pray so she does not prey on me this time around.
…
I keep kicking my boots into the sand. It’s gnawing at me. Antagonized as if the whole blur must resurface. Created for necessity in this darling manner. Every single granule of sand leaves texture on the tip of my boots. Soles strengthened, so that part didn’t matter.
Then comes this utter blue light. Windows, serene. I leave them open all the time and only wonder why I don’t get sick during the brink of winter. My own horoscope told me to ensure the wearing of weather-appropriate clothing this year. I rather burn and sop in summer than take off my coat, and I rather freeze before you ask me to further layer up in winter. I want to feel the breeze cut through the core of nothing that can be defined nor seen without risk of altitude sickness tunneling out my interior.
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