The pounding. The slow, rhythmic beat invites an ugly, industrial breakage of sense. Reality melts around me, suffocating the seizures of intense imagination that now twitch with a lilac burn and succumb to the conquest of the atmosphere. I sit here silent and sad.
But in such instances of cerebral pollution, the visions of silver vanilla sing to me, dictate delicate ends, lead me back into the memories of my former joys.
A single star —divine in its isolation— floated in the air, allowing me to leave the pull of the soul and join the music of my own beautiful hell. I then lived on the eternal plane of pleasure, whispering of love and jealousy as I recognized my royal ramblings. I sat there loud and content.
But I forgot to breathe.
Eyes opened to static. Overlord voices. Lips chilled. An unnerving drip of separation from life’s true pain became the true pain. I was only a mother gripping children without skin, mistaking my lack of gravity for freedom. I won’t be able to handle these dreams, just as I cannot handle reality. I return to the pounding, and I still sit here silent and sad.
Dad? “Wassup.” Do you ever feel like the world is choking you? “No.” Cool.