catharsis
Escaping the body. The tenuous balance between reality, the tangible and that which beckons.
I sit here, trying to concentrate, grasp the illusions of reality around me: the wall I lean against, the mattress beneath me, the blade in my hand (left hand, right hand? Hard to distinguish right now, but the acknowledgement of ‘hand’ is comfort enough). The real comfort at the moment though, the indelible sign of reality, life, feeling is the stain on the sheet, growing, spreading.
The moment is all. The wrenching, eviscerating past is quenched by that which flows from the piece of flesh below my left hand (The flowing thoughts have been stemmed enough by the gash and I have been able to establish that it is the left). The firmness of the blade and the seeping pain is the moment, is all.
The sickness provided this body that I am trapped in with an escape, a release. The soothing letting of blood allows me to inhabit this body with some semblance of manageable discomfort.
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