My brain feels encased in this dusty pink glitterbomb right now. It’s making me have these odd daylight delusions and warped ideas that involve organic structures. It could be the cold, the sharp biting wind and the empty glow from a dying sun. It could be the secret satisfaction of sucking on real cigarettes. It could be the fact I’m 19. The age where Stephen King picked up his typewriter in his shabby flat and began to write his first book to be published. He had satisfaction on sucking on Pall Malls, those disgustingly gruff cigarettes made with paper so flimsy that they almost seem liquified.
It’s an itch. The need to be free and open and wide. The crushing want to open my mouth and have perfumed poetry fall out. The saturation on my viewing space turned right up, the skin between my fingers moving fluidly, my bed sheets so cold and the shower so warm, with droplets hanging on my skin; crystalised and brutally clear.
It could be any of those things. But I actually think it’s the awe. The crippling awe. The disfiguring inspirational waves of happiness. It’s brutal! How dare I!
But I am. I’m happy, I’m in awe, I’m filled up with wonder, I’m inspired, I’m less controlled and still free and open and wide, I’m a dusty pink wave of cerebral cortex. I’m hanging upside down at every oppurtunity to see how derranged I can make out the landscape. Why why why? Frantic whys?
I’m safe.