the core, back into the lungs, which can soothe it, and process it, and guide it out through the mouth.
— I MOURN for the people who have been taken from us —
I lost two family members this summer, and so have become quite accustomed to this feeling of excess air ricocheting inside my body.
Grief has done strange things to this body.
It’s almost as if the urge to dance is stronger, but the ability is weaker. Where does the joy of the urge to dance go if the body is frozen? Instead it creaks when it moves and everything hurts. The excess air has turned to fire and I can’t figure out if it needs water, foam, CO2 or dry powder. I try each of them in turn, and the fire ebbs and flows, and shrinks and grows, and eventually plateaus. This respite still hurts, but I guess that’s tough shit; these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
In an attempt to regain bodily control, I got my septum pierced. It made an explosion behind my eyes that obliterated the entire contents of the top half of my skull for approximately three seconds, until the urge to sneeze shocked them back into action.
It felt like I needed much more than a sneeze to fully shock me back into action, maybe eight times more? A petite mort to cope with their grande mort.
AAAAAAAAAAA ——— choo
Maybe such a self-indulgent experience of pleasure is disrespectful. Would the dead be rolling in their graves from the vibrations of a coping mechanism that seems at odds with the process of death?