on reading

on reading

Occasionally, your core is so violently shaken by some force that is so utterly powerful, you open your mouth and you do not know whether to scream, laugh or to weep. You open your eyes and you wonder why the floors are jagged like the rough currents on a stormy ocean, you wonder why the peripherals of your vision blur since you are concentrating, understanding, seeing everything but nothing all at once.

You are seeing everything. From the scathing hot outlines erected against the afternoon sun, to the cool, laissez-faire meanderings escorted by the evening moon. You see the universe’s violent vibration, illuminating the power and interdependence of everything and nothing. How beautifully poetic yet revoltingly plain.

Ideas left unspoken quickens the drumbeats of your pulse. Like droplets from a storm, they rain forcefully against your wrist and send chills twinkling down your spine. Your hands tremor, palms freeze-dried by a sudden arctic chill. Your jaw clenches with dark satisfaction, or is it hunger? A roaring hunger, a scorching thirst. You cry out for the cut of the sentences, the bullets of the words, sliced and skinned so smoothly like a new, luxurious mink scarf.

Your body is reined in harshly by the tension of your soul. The classic lump forms in your throat and you are stuck – stuck falling into a gaping hole of timeless hell. Each interaction is an interruption. An interruption to this rapid and free lock down, without control. Frown – for this is the antithesis of a climax, as life is to death and indifference is to love.

The story unravels and your knees are teetering on the brink of collapse. They’re numb with exhaustion, indulging in ecstatic oblivion won after a fight. The world smirks at you, sympathetically, mockingly. They like to see you tired, defeated. They like to see you finished. Yet, you are a sadist and you yearn for more. You want it to burn.

The paper thin stories flow life into your shaking hands. Your mouth dry, voice hoarse. Your chest, tight, clenched, grasping for every first and last raspy breath, away from your nightmare, away from your sickly sweet and sticky dream.

There is a dance somewhere, swirling, twirling, racing ahead. Faster and faster, the spins are discharged. “Faster and faster” they’re yelled. You cannot catch them. Oh, the damned! You cannot have it all.

 

(Sent from Bangkok, Thailand; in tribute to The Fountainhead)