Inevitable Torture
Mind blank in thought, trapped in a monotone tune. Density deserted atmosphere, space abandoned the galaxy. The view is a flatted gray--brighter than a hopeless black, but filthily staining an impure white. The phrases “lost in space” and “following a train of thought” become a fantasy--an idealistic, unachievable luxury.
So with the absence of functioning mentality, the flesh’s senses are drugged with sensitivity. Every ticking minute seeps through the skin, pricking bones at their joints. One can only dream to count down weeks while suffering a ritual turn of the earth. Twenty-four hours a day underestimates the unbearable cycle. The wrinkles age as turning clocks suck the blush from the my cheekbones. I can feel it.
I can feel every pump of icy stings to my limbs. I can feel the hours under my skin--an inescapable sore to the most aware sensory known to mankind. To feel is not the torture, but the stretch of duration is the unavoidable misfortune.