Gaseous Dispositions

by natashanelsonart

Lets throw in some semi-old writing so long as I am throwing out some semi-old sketching.


I am a clean, systematic piece of a human being.
Visually fresh but not quite ripe, I rotted away long ago from the inside.
I am managing this disease called life with eyes wide open and blind.
A cycle has been broken.
It knocks on my door knowing I am home, hoping I come back.
How long it stays will be forever unknown.
It may die at my doorstep alone, sick and unfed.
I comfort myself knowing that I am not dieing at its side.
I once placed my comfort in that thought.
I still find it illustrating a beautiful unification within my weak mental condition.
Though happy, and building strengths I thought were digested and defecated long ago, sadness still finds me and overpowers my will…
I slaughter it before it’s too late.
Next time will be too late.
The poison escapes from the lesion.
An invisible gaseous desorption, overpowered by this newly shaped force, hovers over my psyche.
This makes me even stronger.
Aiding me to build a strata of tools for our next encounter.
Without the toxins flowing through my existence I am lost.
Lost, I design this aesthetically innovated path.
I can not determine its closing, I leave it unfinished and instinctively sought after.
Every step I take is unfamiliar but activates extreme arousal triggering a new high.
One can not put a price to this high but I have paid dearly for it.
I wish I could extract the substance, find its blueprint and somehow concentrate the organic properties that allow you to feel such reality.
A substance that exerts reality.
Will I ever just be mentally within the norm of society?
How is it that I can not just instinctively live life?
Instead, I must either escape reality through my love of chemical release or work so painfully hard towards finding my reality that I begin to feel ill and defected. Either way, I am sick.
I remember, however, that this sickness continues to dispose as I massacre it repeatedly.
My new cycle.
Old customs find their way in and I cautiously tread lightly around them.
Though cautious, I am infatuated and provoked.
As if those customs are alive, knowing of their influence, they taunt and tease me.
I am learning to control my impulses and it liberates me towards new inspiration.
Old ways surface and leave me anxious, those are the signs.
The signs I once was so turned on by. The signs that left me wanting more.
I now want less.
Way less.