Prolong the pain are the words I hear.
You wake up in the morning.
Drive to the cove.
The cold waters staring directly at you, almost lustily,
Will she do it?
Not only did she do it once, she did it again.
Shunting feeds the starved visceral organs like a baby to the breast.
Prolong the pain, synonymous for, I can actually feel.
The cold waters expose you.
It makes me honest.
It makes me release the false impressions I didn’t know I had.
How do I know this?
It is how I feel. Feeling is knowing.
Out of the mindless chatter of the frontal lobe and into the depths of your true wild.
I thought I was who I was, until I began choosing to prolong the pain.
To live in the constant drive to go yet again.
Go yet again, until this body you have been gifted has served its time.
Go yet again, until this body has: truly, deeply, madly ran itself dry where - the only option is now, to return it to the womb of the ocean, forever breastfed.
Prolong the pain.
Keep going without the desire of,
knowing.
Just go.
Addicted to exposure. A shot of vulnerability. We will all end up together in the end anyways. Behoove the cells and rattle your bones. If it is calling, let em know you are already on your way. Buckle up but keep the window down.
The fish will go back down within me.
I am fish.
I am tree.
I am dirt.
I am me.
Peace.
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