The Day In The Life Of

Deep compressions etching their way into my life, like the rhythm of resuscitating a body caught in a sudden downpour. The movement is set and there is no turning back. The cave is filled with dark corners and lost souls trying to escape. The air is dank and the humidity is forming a cocoon around my body, weaving with each step I take. The hairs on my arms are standing straight up, like soldiers preparing for battle. Blocks of ice for hands, my entire body is turning numb. There is silence encasing itself in my surroundings. Dark figures shifting and transforming. A shadow is a hunter urging my blood. A blank wall is a manufacture wanting my thoughts. My own touch is the grip of a beggar asking for a few cents. My feet are bare, as if I was a newborn. A certain weightlessness is infiltrating me and giving me a sensation. Am I gliding towards the ceiling with each intake of oxygen? I’m freefalling through thick clouds of condensation, yet I’m standing on firm ground. I’m swimming in an ocean filled with rushing waves, yet not a single water source is near me.

Wake up. I tell myself over and over again, with a slight indication of importance. Wake up. No reaction, no change in scenery. The humidity is there and it’s getting worse. The weightlessness is there and I swear I’m floating. My own touch doesn’t even feel familiar anymore. It’s like my arms were someone else’s, yet somehow attached to my torso. There are no colors, just black and white and a few shades of red. The ceiling is painted the type of red you see after a murder scene in a horror film. I blink, trying to fix my eyesight and bring back the vibrant colors that I miss. Nothing. There is a feeling of comfort in this unfamiliar scenery. It feels so damn good and so refreshing. Maybe I should just wake up, or maybe this is reality and I’m just scared to accept it.

Sounds of the other sex are echoing off the walls, each one with a different pitch. Sounding so elegant, I’m tempted to run in their direction. I stand still though, like a Renaissance statue outside a majestic building. I widen my eyes, attempting to take in as much as possible. My eyelids feel heavy, like miniature weights were placed on each one. A sudden gust of wind brushes against my shoulders and it feels more humane then my own touch.

A unexpected change in the temperature catches my attention. The heat is overwhelming and I don’t know how to embrace it. It strikes me in the chest, like a ten pound bowling ball being shot out of a cannon. Drops of sweat begin to run down my forehead, like a Cadillac trying to outrun a string of police cars. It swerves and sways between my facial features, but eventually crashing into my lips, leaving no survivors. My entire body is on fire. There is heat being emitted from every pore on my skin. I stand though. I stand still and I accept it. I do not search for a well filled with reliving water. I do not search for a fire blanket to roll in. I wait for the humidity to return and weave another niche-like cocoon for me. I see the humidity around the corner staring at me, blinking it’s white eyes filled with clouds. Accept and wait.

The flames that were pealing away me skin like a Florida orange in the hands of a child, don’t exist. The heat that was making my body feel like a home made pizza in an oven, never materialized. Nothing changed, nothing was everything to me. I set my mind on something different, and I made it a reality. The humidity was getting on my nerves and boring me with the same weaving everyday. I wanted something new, something that could make me feel like I exist. The distance between reality and fiction is as long as we make it out to be. Those flames, they were real to me. That heat, made me panic.

The world is a blur, like water dropping on a painting, which creates a manifested and mysterious state. I still can’t see colors (only blue and red)and I still feel the weightlessness. The easiest way to explain it is to fly in a plane to the highest altitude. Jump out as if your life depended on it. Feel the wind blowing between your hair. Feel the clouds place a moisture on your skin. It’s like that. Except you’ll hit the ground and I’ll simply float way.

Something tells me to wake up, to open my eyes. My eyes are open and there is no waking up, there is only acceptance. My touch doesn’t feel humane, but maybe there is nothing humane about me. Not my skin, not my eyes, not my hair, not my lungs. Maybe to be humane is something completely different, something we have yet to comprehend. My limbs are numb and my touch is nonexistent. My body is deteriorating but my mind is strengthening. The nonexistent is my existence. I glance over at my veins and they are blue, as if someone slipped blue dye into the Amazon. I’ve consumed myself into thinking the shadows are hunters and vultures watching my every move. My eyelids have been shut this entire time, with the weights winning over my control. My vision is crystal clear (excluding the moments when the humidity creates fog). The room shifts and I’m hanging upside down. My insides shift and my stomach is in my throat. My heart is in my stomach. My lungs are working in reverse. There is unrest crawling on the ground, trying not to be seen. I’m tempted to grab it and embrace it. The sleeping pattern I have accustomed for so long has dug its own grave. Insomnia picks up the shovel and piles the leftover dirt over the grave (how generous).

It’s as if existence was being translated into something foreign and we had no idea how to embrace it. We fear it, we hate it, and we still haven’t realized there was a shift in the universe. We are always too busy for anything that doesn’t involve egomania or preliminary auctions of lust.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to live my existence with the weightlessness on my shoulder and the lack of senses as my sidekick.