the flowers are blooming

another visual treat ft. journal entry : 6 aug

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6 Aug

August is a month of damp, holy fertility, where the earth bleeds ambrosia. A hefty, wet mucus of white light and water splashed over the city concrete, as I emerged wrapped in calculated blue like a ridiculous lady with two legs too short. I donned a blue vest, blue pants, and blue ballet flats. I had a blue umbrella sweating against the withering meat of my palms. There I felt inert suffocation, with a soggy breath let out very second, and it became tiring to be.

My ride was blue today and the scarf the driver wore was blue, but the sky was ashy grey and on the ground there was muddy brown. The scent in the air was sickly sweet like the scent of wet asphalt and its bruised petals being crushed beneath the moving silver rims, malignant like the smell of annihilation. I fell death-bed stuck to the rubber seat with a crawling cold running up my spine like bugs, and then there was a swelling, an expansion of the flesh, so intense that it felt innocent and sensual. I felt like an angel with two eyes with worms inside my veins. It is the tragedy of my physiology that i am never more aware of my own capacity for life than when I feel entirely sickened by it. I didn't understand my disease, I didn't know the cure.

When the bronze gates of the university pushed me inside, the silence was absolute. I climbed the stone stairs to the second floor, my wet jeans clinging to my thighs like sodden, peeling bark, my shoes wept grey matter with every step. Inside the hollow room, stuffed with plenty chairs and desks, I was a solitary pistil in a vacant greenhouse. The room was burning with fire and a stagnant humid heat knocked me over. A hundred baby buds were rotting inside my chest, their soft embryonic stems liquefying in the static air, an incubator. The long tall windows, filmed over in cool, choking blue, filtered the afternoon light until it resembled the pale breath of a struggling infant.

I sat with my legs wide apart like a full man on the chair in front a standing fan. It whirred with the desperate, hollow hum of a dying bee, flinging scarce threads of air against my icy, glistening skin. My hair hung down my spine like waterlogged roots pulled from the earth and left to dry in the sun. The wetness seeped into the wood beneath me as I sat there rubbing my palms and thought of my friends. The rest of my company was hiding from the rain inside their burrows somewhere. When I am alone, I am pathetic.

My heart burned against my ribs, heavy and swollen, until I felt my neck snap with the fragility of a spring stem snapped at the node. A violent urge rose in my throat and it was the desire to stick a finger deep into my mouth and disgorge my internal weather all over my lap and to unclutter the organs, to set them free from this agony. I never once hated this place but I hate being this way. The self I discover in that vacuum is hideous and entirely natural. Am I the closest I have ever been to being who I truly am? I am, I am, I am, when I'm completely alone but I hate her sickness, her desperation, her hideous, unadorned honesty.

xx