#fourth word

[wordswilling]

Selection of the Fourth Word

The body is in...

[wordswilling]

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One Word a “Day” - Fourth Word (Spoken)

I'm still not sure which one of these I'm going to use. For now, here they are for your listening pleasure. Or something. It's kind of long.

Here are the fourth word pathways, by the way. I got some reaction on these, which is nice. Thanks for reading and liking and reblogging! I also got some nice feedback from whatwasiexpecting, which was very much appreciated. Thanks again, everyone!

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The body is going bad quickly. You pick a path, and you follow it. Sometimes it leads to this. You pick people and put them in your life. That's not right. Your life intersects with other people's lives, your day interacts with their day, and you choose to put them in your tomorrow. You choose to keep including them in your days, one after another. At some point, it becomes understood, part of your reality. You wake up, and they are there. Then, one day, you wake up and they're not next to you like they're supposed to be. Is it your fault? How are you supposed to know?

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The body is in the back of the car. The car is a white van. The car is a black hearse. The car is from Japan. The car is from Detroit. The car goes 9 to 5. That's a parking lot. My lot in life is this cubicle. My lot in life is this bed. My lot in life is a chair. A chair in my car. The body is in the front of the car. The body is beneath the car. The body is on top of the car. The body is sweating. The paint is peeling. The body is bleeding. The road is wavering. The body is a mirage. The body is real. Sweat on my palms. A wheel to turn wheels. Weals. A car has two cavities.

weal/wēl/

Noun:

A red, swollen mark left on flesh by a blow or pressure.

That which is best for someone or something: "in the public weal"

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The body is everything. The last part first. Death. The body is where we house death, and our fear of death, and our perceptions of everything that comes before. In between. Death and birth. Our perceptions change. One night we are perfect, we are gods, we are forever. The next, nothing, less than dust. How can we be uncomfortable in our own skin? How do we not know if we are too hot or too cold? Sometimes. I wish I were a lizard. Lying on a rock. Rocks are like periods. Before we turn eight, we do not remember in words. Before we are eighty, we imagine memories. Retrospection is impossible until it is imprinted on our skin, buried in our foreheads, hidden behind arthritis and Alzheimer's. Before we die, we lose our words, but our hearing is the last thing to go. Comfortably numb does not mean at thirty what it means at eighty. One day, we will pretend the pain was a sweetness. One day, we will house our bodies as memories.

[wordswilling]

the body is a cell

the body is impermanent

the body is going

the body is weak

the body is everything.

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The body is cooling on the table. Somewhere. Here, though, the air is so hot it's heavy. I feel like the whole day, every hour already passed, is pressing down on me. From behind. I feel vulnerable, weak. The TV's going. I turn the volume on and off. The radio, from my computer. iTunes. Netflix. Outside, sometimes it's raining. Other times there are cars in the street. Noise is not white, it's grey and brown and murky. When the world blurs together, people think it's romantic. It just feels messy to me. Like bodies cooling on the table. Like memories unfinished.