Occasionally, before
I even have time to react, I feel my mind suddenly encased in ice. My physical
shell hardens to monolithic levels, and within, a hurricane of emotions and
thoughts becomes trapped. The supply of oxygen fades, dies. I am frozen. I find
myself in constant, harried search for truffles, little timid hiding things
snuggled warm and invisible under layers of fall leaves. How long will one
satisfy the person opposite, this little gem of organic matter, this temptress
of porcine hedonism? It is like trying
to find the words when they are expected of you, when words are considered more
meaningful than the emotions and actions behind them. I am running out of
words. They are getting lost in the bottleneck of my exhausted throat, there is
dreaded disconnect between my thoughts and the audiovox sonance sound of
consonants that trickle out of me in lurid, impotent waves. Sound. I love to
revel in the simple beauty of fingers thrumming softly against a mounded,
rounded collarbone. The shape of yours are fascinating, the sound that echoes
out into the air surrounding us in warm folds and then words are no longer
something that I can meaningfully string together in a way that you will
understand. This misfire is tragic. What do my eyes say that my mouth can say
better? I wish to observe, collect information, all the little bonbons of data that make up your
being, myriad as to be infinite in their abundance. Speak to me, and I will
absorb it all like an anhydrous sea sponge.
I feel much. Too much. It seems a fitting
parallel between my mind and body that I am afflicted with extremely sensitive
skin; the mere brush of even the softest fabric is the rough kiss of a katana
slicing the upper layer off in painful strokes.
Sometimes this goes on for hours, reaching a point where even air is my
enemy as it moves viciously over my body. I cannot scream. For how could I
explain the madness that consumes me in this state? The physical manifestations
of pain are obvious; dilated pupils, quickened breath, slight full body tremors
almost undetectable by the eye unfettered by human invention. It will subside.
Soon.
Movement startles
me. Fight or flight, and suddenly soaring on a maelstrom of atmospheric
pressure. All you do is appear there in my line of vision without warning of
sound or aura, and my mind transcends time as it thrusts back eons and ages to
the first forays onto dry land and the black void of desolate, antagonizing
landscape. I am rendered in pieces, condensed, just an energetic sphere of
humanizing Id. All this in a matter of fractured seconds.
I am only human, and
like all humans beautiful in my imperfections. We need not apply labels to all
these imperfections; we seek to define that which we do not understand, but I feel it is better to accept that we will
not understand everything. To define something is to put it in a constrictive,
squashed box, to limit it, delineate it, bar it from ever evolving into
something that will surprise you, scare the shit out of you, change you.
Change. A frightening, dark thing for humans. We get so comfortable in our
nests, bordered by reticence and ambivalence, thorns and scraping igneous
rocks. I am guilty of this fear, as well. Still, I shed it like snakeskin
sloughing away, revel in the freedom of release, and then as a moth tangled in
spider silk I am caught in the cycle as it slowly, imperceptibly grows back
again. We are ecstatically human.
