Sunday, November 21, 2010

Cold Water

--Robert Langellier

Look up to the ceiling and whisper a quick prayer. It’s coming. I know there’s darkness around the corner. There really is nothing like the terror of realization that pain is about to envelop every fiber of the body.

Right now I don’t think it would be too far out of the way to say that I’m the safest and most comfortable that I’ve ever been. The world around me is soothing, and I feel just fine that I’m at my most vulnerable within it. I can feel everything peacefully cascading over me, forcing my eyes closed, covering me in a womblike shelter of comfort. Everything is well.

That’s when I remember how the only certain thing is change. I’m on top of the world, and there’s only one way things can go from here. I know what the future holds, but I’m afraid to face it. So I hold out. I hold on to the warmth I have for as long as possible. I cling desperately to my comfort until it’s not even comfortable anymore. It’s nothing more than a hideout from the world. I’m happy, but I continuously have the nagging remembrance that I’m living a lie.

Eventually I have to face up to the fact that it can’t be like this forever. I’ve buried myself and built myself a veritable tomb. I can feel my skin wrinkling. I have to reenter the real world at some point. I start creating visions of what the future will be like. In my vision I’m standing, naked and freezing, alone. I’m soaked to the bone, and every wisp of air causes me to shudder. My knees want to bend and break. My skin, at the root of every single hair, bubbles up into goosebumps.

I want nothing more than the world to stay this perfect, but the fear of falling has already tainted it. There’s nothing left to do but to let the cold breeze of change sweep over me. It’s coming. I take a deep breath and hesitate briefly while I soak up my last few seconds of comfort and pleasure. My mind finally resolute, I reach down, turn off the shower and open the curtain.

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