Tuesday, October 04, 2011

Study of Pure Emotions

It floats somewhere above the base of the gut, sometimes rising, bobbing, into the throat, where it grows dense and heavy and dark.

There are times when you wish it would rise higher, just an inch or two, where it will pop like a geyser and spew heat all over your skin, wetting your skin, releasing you from your skin that is stuck in this place like a poltergeist with nowhere to rest.

This is what sadness feels like.

I wait in a field of blond grass, taller and wispier than I, yet just as fragile. With the grass, I stand and sway, listening to something on the horizon. It is low, but there is danger in the rumbling. I hear it getting closer, louder, the sound of it developing ominous tones, deep with bass. I cannot see it, but I know that it is black. I know that it is black, and I know that it is hot, and I know that I will not be able to outrun it and so I don’t even try.

As it comes, I stand still, outwardly and unto myself.  There is nowhere to look but inside, and so I shut my eyes and contemplate my final destruction.

The heat is closer now; there is a wind blowing toward me, flagellating me with the grass that is my flimsy shield and camouflage. My skin is cut and bleeding. Still, I stand, unmoved and unmoving but for the quickening of my pulse as I steel my soul for what is about to consume me.

That is what rage feels like.

Run the sharp edge of a knife along smooth, almond-colored skin and watch it burst open, revealing hues of ivory and ruby.  Listen to sighs of ecstasy, of delight, of finally feeling a feeling that is so horrific, so painful, as to not be ignored.

To bleed. This is what relief feels like.