Sometimes, when I'm at work, I think about laying my arms down on the oven ledge, or pressing my hand into a hot, steaming pan. I think about what would happen if my flesh contacted with the blistering metal in front of me. I think about my flesh being seared away, the instant evaporation of my blood, the ledge burning into me like a freshly sharpened carving knife. Digging deeper down until the bone starts to char and crack. Would I scream? Would I stop breathing? Would I feel relieved because I can't think about anything else but the roasting skin in front of me?
And sometimes I think about what would happen if I pushed my way through the dingy kitchen door standing behind me, and ran head on with someone carrying a knife. One of the knives that I use to cut open packages, the ones that hundreds of complete strangers use to cut their steaks every day. I wonder what would happen if that knife made immediate contingency with the palm of my hand. If that person's fingers slipped, if their arm swung around in their own startled surprise and wedged the sharp object into the dozens of tiny bones that curl around my sheets when I can't sleep at night.
What would it feel like? What would the people around me do? Would I fall onto the red tile caked with tiny food particles and filth, the scummy residue from millions of footsteps? Would I cry? Would someone start running? Staring? Dialing phone numbers? Screaming at me? Screaming at nothing? Would they care because it was me, or because it itself was so horrible? Would 'care' be the right word, even?
I'm staring at this shiny blade sticking out the back of my own hand and how do I feel? I'm staring at it like it's a fucking train wreck, and what am I thinking about?
Am I thinking about the pain? The people around me? Whether or not I should pull this foreign object from the puckering pale skin I see swelling before me eyes? Am I thinking about my life? Am I thinking about what I love? Or is everything a hospital flat line, buzzing in my ears - ringing in my head and it's all I hear....
We all think about it. About doing something that is beheld as blatantly stupid. Something like letting go of the steering wheel and waiting to see where the ton and a half mass of metal underneath you progresses without your help. Leaning too far out that fifth story window. Trying to breath in underneath the surface of your bath water. Drinking the liquid you put on the cavernous wound you have collected each morning. Punching the mirror in front of you. Pressing your finger against that crooked nail staring out from the wall beside your bed.
We're thinking about it, somewhere in the sickest (or maybe even most average), deepest, dank parts of our minds. Maybe it's not always that noticeable, or the single, most exclusive thought in your head, but it's there. The 'what if's'. The curiosity with pain. Destruction. Blood-spattered coagulations of wonderment.
Can I prick my finger and still be breathing? Can I cut across my arm and still see light? Can I lay my bare hand against this flame and still hear your voice? Can I push this knife into my throat, and still wake up the next morning?
How close do we want to get to death? Do we choose ourselves, or is it chosen for us?
We're thinking about the ice cube floating in the glass of tea in front of us. We're thinking about choking on it.
We're branding our arms with restaurant manufactured ovens, piping hot copy machine parts from our offices. We're scarring our hands with dinner knives.
And what are you thinking? How do you feel?
What happens now?
Why.
And sometimes I think about what would happen if I pushed my way through the dingy kitchen door standing behind me, and ran head on with someone carrying a knife. One of the knives that I use to cut open packages, the ones that hundreds of complete strangers use to cut their steaks every day. I wonder what would happen if that knife made immediate contingency with the palm of my hand. If that person's fingers slipped, if their arm swung around in their own startled surprise and wedged the sharp object into the dozens of tiny bones that curl around my sheets when I can't sleep at night.
What would it feel like? What would the people around me do? Would I fall onto the red tile caked with tiny food particles and filth, the scummy residue from millions of footsteps? Would I cry? Would someone start running? Staring? Dialing phone numbers? Screaming at me? Screaming at nothing? Would they care because it was me, or because it itself was so horrible? Would 'care' be the right word, even?
I'm staring at this shiny blade sticking out the back of my own hand and how do I feel? I'm staring at it like it's a fucking train wreck, and what am I thinking about?
Am I thinking about the pain? The people around me? Whether or not I should pull this foreign object from the puckering pale skin I see swelling before me eyes? Am I thinking about my life? Am I thinking about what I love? Or is everything a hospital flat line, buzzing in my ears - ringing in my head and it's all I hear....
We all think about it. About doing something that is beheld as blatantly stupid. Something like letting go of the steering wheel and waiting to see where the ton and a half mass of metal underneath you progresses without your help. Leaning too far out that fifth story window. Trying to breath in underneath the surface of your bath water. Drinking the liquid you put on the cavernous wound you have collected each morning. Punching the mirror in front of you. Pressing your finger against that crooked nail staring out from the wall beside your bed.
We're thinking about it, somewhere in the sickest (or maybe even most average), deepest, dank parts of our minds. Maybe it's not always that noticeable, or the single, most exclusive thought in your head, but it's there. The 'what if's'. The curiosity with pain. Destruction. Blood-spattered coagulations of wonderment.
Can I prick my finger and still be breathing? Can I cut across my arm and still see light? Can I lay my bare hand against this flame and still hear your voice? Can I push this knife into my throat, and still wake up the next morning?
How close do we want to get to death? Do we choose ourselves, or is it chosen for us?
We're thinking about the ice cube floating in the glass of tea in front of us. We're thinking about choking on it.
We're branding our arms with restaurant manufactured ovens, piping hot copy machine parts from our offices. We're scarring our hands with dinner knives.
And what are you thinking? How do you feel?
What happens now?
Why.
How do I feel? I feel like we're on a journey from question to answer.
I feel like we shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to get there. We arrive soon enough and it's what we do on the way that counts.
Time to travel baby!
ps: if your travels ever bring you to Vancouver you've got a place to stay.