Drive
I want to drive. Very fast. With my windows rolled down and my radio blaring and I want to shove it into fifth and fling myself at an overpass pylon at 90 miles an hour just to see what it's like to crash through my windshield and skid 60 yards down the highway (leaving my skin behind me as I go) until I scrape to a halt and bleed to death from the wound that covers my entire body.
I want to climb. Very high. I want to throw myself up a steep craggy slope breaking off fingernails on precarious ledges that can barely support my weight as I cling to them frantically striving to reach the summit before my lungs succumb to the thinning atmoshpere and I pass out and fall back down (so easily) the way that I fought so hard to climb all the way to the bottom where my bones will snap into several hundred jagged human anatomical puzzle pieces that all the kings horses and all the kings faggots could never put back together again (if they could find them all that is).
I want to run. Very far. In the rain and the wind and every single horrific atmospheric condition that has plagued man since he was evolved enough to be called such until I reach the precipice at the end of the world where I can finally hurl myself into oblivion and scream all the way down into the nothingness (at the end of the world) about all the wrongs that I have ever received and all the pain I've ever felt until I hit the bottom of the endless in a single sickening thud (imagine it now if you will a body falling from someplace impossibly high and ending its descent on a random street in New York City it makes a terribly disgusting sound as the largest part of it contacts the ground full-on and face-first and the skin tears like a rape victim's pretty Sunday dress and bones are cracked so loud they sound like gunshots and all the blood splashes out like...well like blood onto a city street in a seemingly impossible wave of crimson).
I want to fight. Very hard. Bare-chested and sweating and grunting and barely feeling the blows for all my nerves are dead now my outsides are a fragile dead shell keeping my insides from becoming my outsides and I look hardly human but rather more like a walking piece of raw meat that has been very thoroughly tenderized and I want to hit back until the skin is split away from my knuckles and my blows are that of solid exposed bone and this allows me to feel every little nuance of every blow I strike at my opponent each tooth jarred loose each nose broken each rib cracked and every blow paints my skin with a new coat of blood a fine spray that reminds me that I am alive because blood means life and maybe this blood will put some life into me if only I can beat enough of it out of whoever because my own is dead and black and sluggish (see even now how the flow slows with the tempo my heart and I grow weary and everything seems to move too slowly and maybe this time I can't outrun him maybe I've fought one too many battles but none of them seemed very big well David did slay Goliath even as Gulliver was subdued by the Lilliputians) all this I think as my body slumps to the floor and my blood-veiled eyes look their last and all at once close and that is the end of it all with that last and ultimate endless blink.
I don't want to go meekly. I want to spit in the face of life, scream defiance to the stars and tell fate where to stick it, but most of all I don't ever want it said that I gave up. I want to be able to say, "At least I tried, you bastards...goddammit, at least I did that much."
I want to climb. Very high. I want to throw myself up a steep craggy slope breaking off fingernails on precarious ledges that can barely support my weight as I cling to them frantically striving to reach the summit before my lungs succumb to the thinning atmoshpere and I pass out and fall back down (so easily) the way that I fought so hard to climb all the way to the bottom where my bones will snap into several hundred jagged human anatomical puzzle pieces that all the kings horses and all the kings faggots could never put back together again (if they could find them all that is).
I want to run. Very far. In the rain and the wind and every single horrific atmospheric condition that has plagued man since he was evolved enough to be called such until I reach the precipice at the end of the world where I can finally hurl myself into oblivion and scream all the way down into the nothingness (at the end of the world) about all the wrongs that I have ever received and all the pain I've ever felt until I hit the bottom of the endless in a single sickening thud (imagine it now if you will a body falling from someplace impossibly high and ending its descent on a random street in New York City it makes a terribly disgusting sound as the largest part of it contacts the ground full-on and face-first and the skin tears like a rape victim's pretty Sunday dress and bones are cracked so loud they sound like gunshots and all the blood splashes out like...well like blood onto a city street in a seemingly impossible wave of crimson).
I want to fight. Very hard. Bare-chested and sweating and grunting and barely feeling the blows for all my nerves are dead now my outsides are a fragile dead shell keeping my insides from becoming my outsides and I look hardly human but rather more like a walking piece of raw meat that has been very thoroughly tenderized and I want to hit back until the skin is split away from my knuckles and my blows are that of solid exposed bone and this allows me to feel every little nuance of every blow I strike at my opponent each tooth jarred loose each nose broken each rib cracked and every blow paints my skin with a new coat of blood a fine spray that reminds me that I am alive because blood means life and maybe this blood will put some life into me if only I can beat enough of it out of whoever because my own is dead and black and sluggish (see even now how the flow slows with the tempo my heart and I grow weary and everything seems to move too slowly and maybe this time I can't outrun him maybe I've fought one too many battles but none of them seemed very big well David did slay Goliath even as Gulliver was subdued by the Lilliputians) all this I think as my body slumps to the floor and my blood-veiled eyes look their last and all at once close and that is the end of it all with that last and ultimate endless blink.
I don't want to go meekly. I want to spit in the face of life, scream defiance to the stars and tell fate where to stick it, but most of all I don't ever want it said that I gave up. I want to be able to say, "At least I tried, you bastards...goddammit, at least I did that much."