Like a raw nerve ending. Like everything condensed into a single sensation, taste and touche and smell and sight all working alongside this music. It expands within your chest, a balloon sending you adrift towards the ceiling because the mattress no longer has to support your human body. That leaded, dreary thing stuffed too full of bone and marrow and spit and guts and sperm. It all seems ludicrous, everything up until this point. The incessant drinking, the numbing of yourself in some sort of misguided attempt to combat reality. Reality has no teeth though. Reality is bright and light. We are the ones clouding the sky with our own vicious capitalistic hunger. There is an insatiable pit in our stomachs and so we work for what we don't want and cringe when we get it, disgusted by our own lust for silly things, our superficial zeal. We drink to numb. We drink to feel tingles in our ghost hands that are no longer nimble enough to craft change. This is different though. You can tell as you hold on to the windowsill and gaze down onto the sidewalk from his second story flat. People are down there, but they are not the only things. Flowers are there as well, fighting against the compressing slabs of the sidewalk that pinch them round the stem. These flowers aren't deterred, and they fight alongside the green of the moss that dribbles down the asphalt and feel the music as it calls down to them from his room. The wooden window frame is malleable between your two hands and you can feel that these hands are present. They are not numb and change is possible, it just begins with a new foresight. You have to begin from scratch. Infantile, blinking in the sun. The sun was always there, even when you were just that embryonic bud. But the membrane of placenta and your mothers bloated stomach protected you. It also kept you from that sun. Now, finally, you are born, the shackles hindering growth cast away. The separation is finite but not without love, we have ancestry to thank for these bodies. These hands. But presumption stifles innovation, and each generation must look at the world as something both new and receptive to change. If we are wrong then the world ends. If we are right, then we have built a future out of the falling ash of misguided industrialisation.
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