Chronicles of Sick


I’m going to tell you a story about a human being.
She runs over to the fence to vomit something with a watery consistence, then stands bent over the fence for surely a minute, then gets a nosebleed, then runs inside the preschool. People smile and they say things like we were talking about lasagna, that must be why she felt sick, haha.” I think my brain has dumbed down at least a half notch since then. I think it’s easy to go home, check Facebook with the intention of appraising your coworkers but what you see unfold is a story. If you look closely at these footprints left behind in the internet you see the intention behind every post and comment. With an open heart, you see their whole life. But that can’t be true for all the people who post things. Maybe in order to seep through so sweatily you have to bleed, sweat, and vomit so profusely that you are undeniable. For this to happen you need to be really really sick. 
     This puking woman has spindly legs. She moves like a spider. I’ve completely glorified her by picturing her crying     and dancing to songs that I love, something she, for sure, does to to free her mad heart. I’m projecting a whole world onto this woman. But I felt it. the way it smelled, whatever she ejected. Today when she puked I smelt it. When I saw her party pictures, her stories of mishaps with food and her made up pictures I smelt her existence through my internet nostrils: Extra Sensitive. I see a woman with a powerful denial. Or is that something I think I know about her again, like some kind of secret inordinate knowledge that I get from me? 
      This woman gets home from work every night to put on her favourite songs. They’re the kind of songs that      everyone feels the same when listening to, the kind of songs that soundtrack movies about teenagers freeing their minds. She puts them on, it’s dark outside the window and she starts to sway. At first she just goes back and forth, with her eyes closed, her spindly arms dangling almost level with her knee. Then her head jerks upward, she’s surrendering to the emotion, eyes still closed, heart beating fast, as her head comes down again she is frothing with it. She’s moving about, she’s gallivanting around the whole of her room, and the hole of her heart. She is wild with complete abandon and should someone walk in the room right now her whole world would disintegrate. This dancing is the release.

I think about how ugly she is in the face of our society’s ideals, how truly not right she is in society’s collective fucking eyes and then how it doesn’t matter and how it must be affecting her, how she’s so hard to make contact with it’s as if you’re talking to someone else when you talk to her, how she is just there, how she is smiling, how she, appears outwardly at least, to be living level with who she is and her current opportunities for funlovejoy and what that is to her. 

This dancing is the release. When your shell is so ugly and hard and stark that no one dares get close cause they don’t wanna cut themselves. When your inside gets to exist because you know then, finally, that you are not your outside. You break and you break and you break and in the cracks of you, you appear. You blaze out from the sores and you spill out of your mouth, like light.

Don’t let your sickness take you and I won’t let mine take me.

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