I’m spinning around the thoughts in my head, a pressure canister, trying to hold everything contained in the midst of a tornado grasping and pulling the pieces from my fingertips.
It’s a frantic dash, the feeling like maybe, just maybe, I can keep everything from flying out of my control if I can just hold tight. One second at a time.
I’ve never been good at holding and this, this is stillness in the middle of chaos, silence echoing in the roar.
My mind is a chaotic place to live sometimes; the galaxies of thought moving and colliding, emitting sparks that threaten to ignite in the pressurized gases of grey matter that sit deceptively still for all they facilitate this intergalactic tango.
How do thoughts move? How do they form full islands, flush with life and taking shape and form, masses of tectonic instability? How can thoughts simultaneously hold the complexities of life and motion and be as insignificant and small as a grain of sand?
Collision. The island of desire, the universe of unfinished sentences beginning with “I want…” The labyrinthine jungle of control, and what it means to lose it, and what it means to give it up, and how we ever go about finding it again. Is it a crutch or a tool, something that aids me through this landscape, or extra weight I have been carrying for too long?
The volcanic eruptions where the air tastes metallic and sweet, and the rivers flow with blood; I want to submerge myself until my skin is stained the faintest shades of red. Grasp hold pull; lava cools like scabs and I want to pick and pull and tear until the soft underbelly of broken skin is visible again.
I woke up spinning, the trajectory of my body bound into the gravity of my mind, my thoughts directing motion, feet scrambling to find balance in the pitch and heave of a storm. The pressure is building; I feel my fingertips slipping from the edges they cling to, small bits of debris and detritus filling the space inside my gut.
I don’t know what it means to let go, but it brings the surety of a free-fall and I do not trust the net I built to catch my weight in tempestuous winds.
I want, with a ferocity that I have not often experienced, the shape and flavor of desire melting in my mouth like chocolate. I want, like a lightning bolt suspended out in time, frozen, waiting for me to grasp the plasmic edges and light my body electric. The buzz and hum of the air puts my body on edge, the kind of the edge before an orgasm, the precipice before plunging into a chasm too dark to see the bottom. Fear and adrenaline and the sweet delicacy of desire dripping drops of blood like breadcrumbs from my lips. Arched back; I’m diving in.