When you want to
write, you want to write beautifully. When you want to think, you want to think
aloud with a whole gush of blood to your brain. When you want to give, you want
to give with wide hands and a careless heart to hold nothing back. When you
want to laugh, you want the sound to fill every room till your gut echoes the
guffaw that escapes from your lips in mad, throbbing pulses that finally disseminate
into soft waves of nothingness.
So when you want to feel, you want to feel with every nerve
in your aching body. A dull ache that spreads from somewhere in the middle of
your neck and moves down to the tips of your fingers, the nails on your toes.
Your ankles seem to twist during the transmission of pain and your wrists
writhe on their own accord—an intermission of the lazy jolts of pain that nest
within you.
Try to fight—push your
limits, crack your neck, snap your fingers and blink hard. Nothing works. Try
to distract—watch glimmering lights, tug at unwanted hairs and stare blankly at
a shut screen.
Nothing works.
Try to write it down.
Hands hurt.
Head hurts.
Heart hurts.
Give up. Walk away.
