It starts with constipation, weeks-long, loss of appetite.He wonders if it is related to his lifestyle or his emotional state (both currently unhealthy).
He is contemplating a life change, again, but is interested in doing something different; he is tired of the same two or three places he seems to end up again and again.
He is between deciding on a "healthy" lifestyle and an "unhealthy" one. That's really what it boils down to.
He is interested in more social interaction. He always has been. This brings him happiness, or at least the closest to it he has ever known.
The constipation! Another cigarette. The third one of the day, none of them satisfying; all of them frustrating. The tobacco is too damp to smoke easily. Too dry is not good for smoking enjoyment, but too damp is worse.
He would like to change this fact, but he cannot. He also cannot get the tobacco to dry, cannot get a good smoke. He strains to draw on it; the paper comes loose (he rolled it himself with a head shop rolling machine) and it quickly looks old, antiquish.
He lights it again and gets his lungs full of the smoke he craves, full of the nicotine his body craves. He has had to smoke it like a joint, sucking the cigarette hard, filling his mouth with smoke and only then drawing it into his lungs. They seize up, just this side of a cough; it is a satisfying feeling.
He tries again but can't get another good draw. The cigarette is less than halfway smoked! Harder and harder he sucks on it.
And then, suddenly, it happens. The weight of his intestines reminds him. There is a shifting of the mass inside his body, like he is about to shit, the first shit in too long, a great big shit that will empty out downward and at the same time lift a weight off of his shoulders.
He throws the useless cigarette into the yard and rises from the comfy cushions of the front porch.
A waterbug, a great brown-winged date, sees a shadow, a flash in the porch light she's been concentrating on, and she flies to it, a flurry of waxpaper wings, right at his head, his face.
He falls to the concrete, arms fluttering around his head defensively.
His stomach cramps up and his legs become limp, useless, like he's disappeared below the waist. A panic attack ensues, sweat, chills, the mind watching and reporting on the body which has lost control. His mind begs the body to respond, but it does not.
He can feel his rectum loosen, feels a force against it from the inside causing it to open wider and wider.
Frantically, he grabs at his fly and opens it, slides his shorts to his knees so he doesn't shit his pants.
Something moves out of him, something so big it stretches the rectum beyond its usual opening; it seems to be pushing bones aside. The pain drenches him with sweat. The concrete is cold against his cheek.
He says to himself, "Giving birth couldn't be worse than this."
A boulder pushes out of him, but he is too weak to pinch it off; it lies heavy against one sweating buttock.
He lifts his trembling head, rolls his body over a little, pushes up with his free hand, leans at the waist and gets a glimpse of what is trying to come out of him.
A head. The top of it is all he can see, shit smeared hair his own color, a wrinkled forehead, one long eyebrow and a pair of hazel eyes, just like his own, staring back at him with an equal amount of dread and confusion.
He falls to the concrete and lands in a deep, deep sleep.
(photo credit)
He is contemplating a life change, again, but is interested in doing something different; he is tired of the same two or three places he seems to end up again and again.
He is between deciding on a "healthy" lifestyle and an "unhealthy" one. That's really what it boils down to.
He is interested in more social interaction. He always has been. This brings him happiness, or at least the closest to it he has ever known.
The constipation! Another cigarette. The third one of the day, none of them satisfying; all of them frustrating. The tobacco is too damp to smoke easily. Too dry is not good for smoking enjoyment, but too damp is worse.
He would like to change this fact, but he cannot. He also cannot get the tobacco to dry, cannot get a good smoke. He strains to draw on it; the paper comes loose (he rolled it himself with a head shop rolling machine) and it quickly looks old, antiquish.
He lights it again and gets his lungs full of the smoke he craves, full of the nicotine his body craves. He has had to smoke it like a joint, sucking the cigarette hard, filling his mouth with smoke and only then drawing it into his lungs. They seize up, just this side of a cough; it is a satisfying feeling.
He tries again but can't get another good draw. The cigarette is less than halfway smoked! Harder and harder he sucks on it.
And then, suddenly, it happens. The weight of his intestines reminds him. There is a shifting of the mass inside his body, like he is about to shit, the first shit in too long, a great big shit that will empty out downward and at the same time lift a weight off of his shoulders.
He throws the useless cigarette into the yard and rises from the comfy cushions of the front porch.
A waterbug, a great brown-winged date, sees a shadow, a flash in the porch light she's been concentrating on, and she flies to it, a flurry of waxpaper wings, right at his head, his face.
He falls to the concrete, arms fluttering around his head defensively.
His stomach cramps up and his legs become limp, useless, like he's disappeared below the waist. A panic attack ensues, sweat, chills, the mind watching and reporting on the body which has lost control. His mind begs the body to respond, but it does not.
He can feel his rectum loosen, feels a force against it from the inside causing it to open wider and wider.
Frantically, he grabs at his fly and opens it, slides his shorts to his knees so he doesn't shit his pants.
Something moves out of him, something so big it stretches the rectum beyond its usual opening; it seems to be pushing bones aside. The pain drenches him with sweat. The concrete is cold against his cheek.
He says to himself, "Giving birth couldn't be worse than this."
A boulder pushes out of him, but he is too weak to pinch it off; it lies heavy against one sweating buttock.
He lifts his trembling head, rolls his body over a little, pushes up with his free hand, leans at the waist and gets a glimpse of what is trying to come out of him.
A head. The top of it is all he can see, shit smeared hair his own color, a wrinkled forehead, one long eyebrow and a pair of hazel eyes, just like his own, staring back at him with an equal amount of dread and confusion.
He falls to the concrete and lands in a deep, deep sleep.
(photo credit)
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