Lights seem brighter. Nausea happens slowly as a thought, turning into an inescapable passage. Like the motion of the galactic spiral is quickened and detectable. Slowed down and sped up. Sounds become pain. Smells distort. Taste unrecognizable. After going through this several times resolve is cemented. Endurance no longer infinite, but timed and controlled.
That song kept playing. The memories it conjures of a life never lived. The once happier time, the loss seemed real. Being an audience to life is an artists excuse. Being an audience to one's own life is an art. To stand and give yourself an ovation, while taking a bow.
It's not what you think it's what you believe. Patricia '96
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