I run from mother. My skin in the saturating rain is ever-more translucent. It loses its substance, and is no longer a thick, opaque white but now a faint, purple and blue revealing the blood vessels beneath like the skin and flesh of a snail. It is saturated, like paper, turning clear in the light and the rain, blending with the elements. Wind shakes the trees, making the gums slant like slashes on a manuscript, like people whose bodies are diminishing, above the sanded banks breaking and slipping. My reality is disintegrating. There is something else more real out there than me, and it is in the form of the huge sound of wind and storm.
Less is more. Abstinence is purity abstinence is purity. The memory of the personal doctrine ringing in the mind, the mind which is turning into a gradual pulp of mush and a slug-like thought. Mental constipation; the mind is clogged, or else no longer has the energy to push out thought. Nor does the rest of the body and yet I run.
She runs from mother. She runs from the hearty meals of meat dripping in oil, oil soaking the meat, its muscle-fibres, its bones, because she knows, she knows so well, you are what you eat. She knew she was addicted to the marrow, its hard-setting, blood-celled fats. The frontal lobes of the brain ached, they screamed, for nourishment, they wanted to think, they ached for it, and all they could think about was the ache for food and nothing more. It does not take alot to propel her light skeletal form. For some dilapidated reason she enjoys likening herself to a ghost... while suppressing, bitterly, that soon perhaps she will be one. Can't have it all, she spits, to herself. And she runs.
The muscles work, the blood is squeezed, pumped around the body to those places which are greying, greying from lack of oxygen, from lack of energy. It feels like a massage. The pressure of the wind squeezes her body as well, wringing her out. It feels good, this feeling of existence.
Nature crashes all around her; water is spitting from the sky. Leaves, knocked out of their branches by the splash, drop like pins to the road, on which she runs and runs.
It is so beautiful. The cool whip of air. The strength of wind. It returns her face to a substantive white, and widens her eyes to its wonder. Wind tears at the edges of her eyes and its coldness produces a thin line of lacrymal liquid. Beautiful wind. Beautiful trees. Beautiful and poisonous hunger. It is so beautiful she feels like screaming.