Every once and a while I find myself caught up in an overwhelming outburst of unidentified emotions that can only seem to manifest themselves physically. The root emotion is there, beneath it all, but on top of that is a bombardment of physical sensation.
Tonight, I'm in a storm. Dark, curtains of lace wrap around me, as if to embrace, and when they spiral away, I found myself caught in their hooks: my skin tears away like fragile tissue paper, leaving me open and exposed. I've always found a warm rain enjoyable, but this one is cold. Slick, wet rocks claw at the soles of my feet, standing somehow on a cove above an illicit, angry ocean. Nothing exists beyond the waves but an empty, bleak darkness.
I am pummeled relentlessly. Each moment I think I can gasp a slice of air I'm yanked in the other direction. The surrender, here, echoes of no relief. Instead, I lie in the wake of hopelessness. Give in: the provocation is all around me. And yet, I am fighting. Clawing despite my fingernails being ripped from their base. This could all be over, this could all be over. Why am I still fighting?
"Truth" --Balmorhea (All is Wild, All is Silent)
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