Grey... it fades. Nothing, but fading still. He grasps, his
mouth, tries to open, and close in the suffocating air.
Weak, he almost weeps,
but his eyes, and all else burns. He pretends to the throne of life, tries, and
tries, and fails and tries, he seeks into his mind, in hope of some anchor, but
there are barriers. What is his name... his name... what is his name... is he a
“his”, or is he a “her”? He doesn’t know. Pain, like a tingling fire, is all
about him. Slowly, it tickles, but a painful tickle. Jean D’ark Joan of Arc, he
recognises a name, but it is not his name. Does he believe in a God? He doesn’t
know... but he knows he should know... at least that.
Above him is a ceiling, but he doesn’t call it that. His
language is broken. It’s not the proper word he somewhat uses. He tries to
write, but it is garbled, all the letters are wrong.
Grey shadows, cover the room. It is a room, he believes, but
they are moving too fast, as though time were not as it should appear. He feels
dizzy, and his chest, seems to implode. He cannot breathe, his vision is going,
his ears throb, and he speaks too loud, but cannot hear it. Suddenly,
everything is too loud, every noise, the highest he can endure. He is deaf.
Bright light, it does... surround. And now he seems blind. The light, covered
by a halo, makes everything a yellowy white. Death that is a light.
His bones scream, and feel broken, as with his ligaments.
His body, starts to spasm, his dead legs and arms, lacking blood, are vacuums,
sucking in form, his muscles expanding, without his consent. Pain, follows the
streams, of warm red water, into his unordered balloon-like wind-struck flag
form. Anger mists, boiling, gurgles through his veins, as he attempts to fight.
Orange red anger turns upon him, his heart hurts, he aims to cure it, and the
great pain in his head, maybe with a knife... but there is no knife. Black mist
covered his burnt dry veins, his arteries, are polluted, with thick oil thick
blood.
His intelligence, his thought, his language, his past, even
moments past, are distant, as though being pushed from his mind. He is below
the water, drowning, as indeterminable, imaginary man eating sharks, his
memories, cast shadows, indeterminable, overhead. He cannot think, nor show his
thought upon the paper that is the burning shroud of life. His right hand
covers his acidic burning mouth, as his left hand, feels his heart, his
drowning in suffocating air... lamely pretending at life... lungs containing...
air to treasure: chest. He has keeled over, a v shaped creature, a stone
figure, petrified, angelically flapping its disordered wings: tipped by feet
and head.
He would love to hurt some other part, to focus, elsewhere,
the pain.
He wants to throw himself out of the window, to fly from the
pain. He cannot. He cannot move.
And the exhaustion, which caused this sudden paralysis, that
had made him drop, from his feat, a deflated balloon... it binds him, more
strongly than a thousand ton rope, around his silently unvocal neck. He cannot
move, and all he senses is pain. All he wants. His only desire is blackness,
nothingness... Void.
It is here, where he would say, later, should he have the
memory, that he is closest to God, in every single sense. With nothing, but
pain, the last thing God, on his deathbed, was made for him, to be, to sense.
Resurrection
in another sense, this similarity showed, the hope brought by pain.
He fell asleep, knowing Tomorrow he would wake again, and
soon again, sometimes, innocently perhaps, unexpectant, he would again
experience, this same pain. That which most unites a man to the Divine!
No scars, physically, to entertain, just the humbling truth,
which sinfulness, made God teach him to endure, truth, and pain.
