Fetal (written while ensconced in the Pod)
If the room temperature is cold, you should feel my insides. Someone can blow a kiss into my mouth and his breath would condense into tiny icicles down at the back of my throat. It would leave a trail of tiny pinpricks of slivered ice, embedding themselves into my internal organs.
I was thinking of the fetal position just a couple of days ago. People would just naturally assume this position after receiving and trying to absorb the harshest of blows. Why, psychiatrists even have a fancy name for it, ‘psychological regression.’
We retreat. We cower. We tuck our chin into our chest and fold our knees into our abdomen then we hug ourselves, clinging on for dear life. The same way that we were during the nine months we spent peacefully swimming inside our mother’s womb. If our mothers had only known that we would be let out in this bullshit of a world, maybe they’d have think twice before conceiving us.
My knuckles crack every now and then. It competes with the sound that my sleek, black keyboard makes after every character typed. A clack followed by a crunch.
I would not be able to withstand this coldness even if I am already frozen,
Nothing could really pummel you down more than a love that withered before it even bloomed. It’s your utter powerlessness that makes it harder…there is nothing that you could have fought for from the start because it was already over before it had even begun. How can one get past that?
How can one attempt to recover from a heartbreak that never existed (challenging Sartre, are we?).
Even as I was writing this, I could hear my head laughing heartlessly at my heart.