Sunday, August 9, 2009
The heat has a way of trying to follow him into the cooled building, but his attention is elsewhere. As he finds a table and as he sets up his things, he isn't considering the assiduous heat and he isn't lamenting the heavy humidity he has just left outside. He is letting his mind wander to the evening before.
How is it that he has let himself get this entrenched? How is it that, not too long ago, he knew he would never be involved, but today, he is drowning in it? It creeps up to his nostrils, and continually slips in to his lungs, coaxing out the painful, jagged coughs as it tries persistently to drown him in itself.
Occasionally, he finds a moment's respite in which to breathe. A moment to step back and try to get his mind thinking clearly again. It gives, though only a little, and after great efforts at allowing himself to let it go. Such moments of clarity last far too shortly, as he finds it creeping again into his lungs, and he is drowning yet again.
He knows that if he were to free himself of it, it would still linger in his clothes and over his body. It would drip slowly from his hair, without forgiveness, across stress lines which riddle his face as of late.
His soul has aged a decade in recent months, and his world has started to change to match. Though he hasn't realized it, his life begins to mirror that of the oppressive refuse that has been tormenting with increasing effectiveness in recent weeks.
He reaches out above everything, grasping and clawing for some sort of anchor outside of all of this, though he finds nothing, and finds himself sinking lower instead. He shuts his eyes and takes in a breath as it rises over his face, into his nose, and tries desperately to force its way under his eyelids and collects in his ears.
He thinks back to a day ten years ago, a time when he was completely unaware, and unafraid. Though his confidence at that time was a naive one, it nonetheless had proved a better way of living than the one he had practiced as of late. The one that had gotten him in this situation. He feels his lungs begin to tug, trying in vain to inform him of his situation.
He already knows. He is regretful and accepting of this fate. How could he expect any better than this? What has he done to earn any better? Who is he to expect any sort of freedom from this? He has made the bed in which he is about to sleep, and he accepts it with great humility and a morbid regret, and his arm is jerked as he is pulled up only enough to cough and spit before taking in a deep, desperate gasp of air. He stays nearly motionless with his eyes closed, hanging from his arm, breathing as residue on his face drips down to meet the rest of it, which presently remains just below his chin.
After what feels like minutes of pure silence, save the sound of his own breath beginning to return to a normal pace, he opens his eyes. His eyes are met with those of a face he is far too familiar with. He looks back and all hope vanishes. The face looks back at him with a shitty grin, awaiting his decision. He weighs the benefits and hangs there a minute longer, and nods in agreement.
As he begins to be pulled out of the mess, and back into the life that defines that night before with a certain perfection, he lets go of the hand pulling him out and crashes back down, immediately submerged and satisfied. He breathes in and his lungs begin to fight back before he can even realize what he has done. His body jerks and lashes out in every direction, his eyes open and burn along with his lungs and his throat and his nose. He tries to scream, but there is nothing.
In his last moment, he understands, and with his last thought, he forgives himself, and he is gone.
How is it that he has let himself get this entrenched? How is it that, not too long ago, he knew he would never be involved, but today, he is drowning in it? It creeps up to his nostrils, and continually slips in to his lungs, coaxing out the painful, jagged coughs as it tries persistently to drown him in itself.
Occasionally, he finds a moment's respite in which to breathe. A moment to step back and try to get his mind thinking clearly again. It gives, though only a little, and after great efforts at allowing himself to let it go. Such moments of clarity last far too shortly, as he finds it creeping again into his lungs, and he is drowning yet again.
He knows that if he were to free himself of it, it would still linger in his clothes and over his body. It would drip slowly from his hair, without forgiveness, across stress lines which riddle his face as of late.
His soul has aged a decade in recent months, and his world has started to change to match. Though he hasn't realized it, his life begins to mirror that of the oppressive refuse that has been tormenting with increasing effectiveness in recent weeks.
He reaches out above everything, grasping and clawing for some sort of anchor outside of all of this, though he finds nothing, and finds himself sinking lower instead. He shuts his eyes and takes in a breath as it rises over his face, into his nose, and tries desperately to force its way under his eyelids and collects in his ears.
He thinks back to a day ten years ago, a time when he was completely unaware, and unafraid. Though his confidence at that time was a naive one, it nonetheless had proved a better way of living than the one he had practiced as of late. The one that had gotten him in this situation. He feels his lungs begin to tug, trying in vain to inform him of his situation.
He already knows. He is regretful and accepting of this fate. How could he expect any better than this? What has he done to earn any better? Who is he to expect any sort of freedom from this? He has made the bed in which he is about to sleep, and he accepts it with great humility and a morbid regret, and his arm is jerked as he is pulled up only enough to cough and spit before taking in a deep, desperate gasp of air. He stays nearly motionless with his eyes closed, hanging from his arm, breathing as residue on his face drips down to meet the rest of it, which presently remains just below his chin.
After what feels like minutes of pure silence, save the sound of his own breath beginning to return to a normal pace, he opens his eyes. His eyes are met with those of a face he is far too familiar with. He looks back and all hope vanishes. The face looks back at him with a shitty grin, awaiting his decision. He weighs the benefits and hangs there a minute longer, and nods in agreement.
As he begins to be pulled out of the mess, and back into the life that defines that night before with a certain perfection, he lets go of the hand pulling him out and crashes back down, immediately submerged and satisfied. He breathes in and his lungs begin to fight back before he can even realize what he has done. His body jerks and lashes out in every direction, his eyes open and burn along with his lungs and his throat and his nose. He tries to scream, but there is nothing.
In his last moment, he understands, and with his last thought, he forgives himself, and he is gone.
posted by JaSpr | 2:29 PM
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