Foetal Position

It’s like I lose myself, you know?

Like I’m this… permeable membrane, that absorbs the person that I’m seeing. They go through me like osmosis and I soak them up. The object of my desire. Desires. Distraction. Give me a hit. Give me a hit. Give me a hit.

And then it slaps me straight in the face, leaving a welt on my cheek to remind me that it’s real. This sudden wave of terror just washes over me and I can’t breathe. I just can’t f*****g breathe. Suddenly I’m this fragile little shell of a person because it dawns on me that that thing that says you are born alone and die alone really is true. At least in a biological sense. And I’m crying like a f*****g child and it shoots through me like lightening, or heroin, pulsating through my veins and I can feel it crawling and creeping through me with its icy, barb-like little claws clinging onto the skin that’s holding everything in, including my sanity, together, and then: emptiness. A pure, enveloping vacuum of numbness.  And I sit. And I stare. And I curl up into a little ball. A safe place. The foetal position. And then I get a little bit sick. Maternal comfort. Pfft, please. So I rearrange my seating position, because f**k you, I’m fine by myself thank you very much.

And I think to myself ‘Is this it? Is this what life is? What is all the fuss for?’ The constant worry about your pore size and life insurance and BMI and cancercancercancer and Fear Of Missing Out (YOLO!) and #whydon’tyoujustshutthefuckup? Is that what it all amounts to? Your pension scheme and your semi detached and your two point five kids and an affair to recapture the lustful deliciousness of youth and losing your marbles and I’ve seen enough death to know that really: there isn’t any dignity in it. People pull you around when you’re rigid and wipe your arse and then you get put in a freezer and then taken out (looking very unattractive and blue) and people cut open your naked body and stuff you like a Christmas turkey. This how you exit the world when you are lucky. F**k me. Really? Where is my spiritual enlightenment in all this?

Just, God, please. Show me a sign. I’m on my knees. I’m praying. Face pointed up towards the heavens, hands aligned to my chest. I’m like Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane; angry, and confused and full or rage. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?