when it comes on, I always have advance warnings, but for some reason, I never see the warnings until I look back.
The nausia and waves of sensation break the helplessness, and the moments of pure relaxed bliss break the inescapable bleakness. The cigarette in my hand was not precieved, and the waves emminating from the wrist drown out all other sensations, real or precieved. Motion, slow, controlled, while the rest of the world flys past in blurs of nonsensical speech and flashes of grey, brown, and red.
The water and the smoke distract well, as well as making the upheval within my internal organs slightly more adjitated than usual. I want to close my eyes and rest, but the heat they contain burns off the insides of the eyelids, the sensation of flame, the smell of burning flesh,and the vision of charred and ashen skin.
The voice. As I sit, I can hear the voices of all conversations around me, but when a question is asked of me, my body is instantly ready to respond, but I cannot form words. By the time I have found the correct words, moments have passed, and attention is shifted, distracted, adjusted. Managing to make out three sentances took me literal minutes, as I attempted to focus on the face, or eyes, or ears of the one beside me, who's body was composed of shifting browns and luminescent blacks.
Across my head, beacons transmit the pulse-wave screams of dieing stars. The interfacing waves create interference patterns as the fields course across the contours of my flesh. hand brushes against face as I try to sit relaxed, the touch releases a torrent of liquid nitrogen cold-burns, flowing from points of impact and rolling up, as though to prove gravity and newton incorrect.
Noise, static, disjoint syllables, incomprehensible tongues squalking gibber-jabber throughout the air, more interference, white noise all that remains.
The nausia and waves of sensation break the helplessness, and the moments of pure relaxed bliss break the inescapable bleakness. The cigarette in my hand was not precieved, and the waves emminating from the wrist drown out all other sensations, real or precieved. Motion, slow, controlled, while the rest of the world flys past in blurs of nonsensical speech and flashes of grey, brown, and red.
The water and the smoke distract well, as well as making the upheval within my internal organs slightly more adjitated than usual. I want to close my eyes and rest, but the heat they contain burns off the insides of the eyelids, the sensation of flame, the smell of burning flesh,and the vision of charred and ashen skin.
The voice. As I sit, I can hear the voices of all conversations around me, but when a question is asked of me, my body is instantly ready to respond, but I cannot form words. By the time I have found the correct words, moments have passed, and attention is shifted, distracted, adjusted. Managing to make out three sentances took me literal minutes, as I attempted to focus on the face, or eyes, or ears of the one beside me, who's body was composed of shifting browns and luminescent blacks.
Across my head, beacons transmit the pulse-wave screams of dieing stars. The interfacing waves create interference patterns as the fields course across the contours of my flesh. hand brushes against face as I try to sit relaxed, the touch releases a torrent of liquid nitrogen cold-burns, flowing from points of impact and rolling up, as though to prove gravity and newton incorrect.
Noise, static, disjoint syllables, incomprehensible tongues squalking gibber-jabber throughout the air, more interference, white noise all that remains.
geckogirl:
hey it was great to see you again last night! i hope we get a chance to do that more.