You Regress, Draining
You have thus reduced yourself. You turn your organic structure into a form that melts and boils. Your skin stretches – crackling, hardening into a vessel. The soup of you quivers and transcends. You shift into gelatinous consistencies, sticky as you start to take form, a new form. But before you can even think about breaking away, you must wait.
You regress your being, risk premature ending, melt while solidifying, rendering your organics into something different, something that is foreign to the way your organs had once been arranged. You sit there and you wait for change – you wait to turn into something that is altogether different from what you once were.
You… Can I even call you a You?
Are you being or a thing? I struggle to understand your presence, your blackened eyes swollen to eclipse all the white that used to indicate where you were looking. Can you see me, here? As I stare at you and nothing moves, nothing about you says that you are there. It is too easy to think you not alive, to think you inanimate. Yet the subtle strumming of the winds that softly touch and stir you seek to remind me that there is indeed life there, under that doll-like exterior. You only pretend to be hollow.
I still find it difficult to believe there is a soul squirming in uncertainty and anxiety, beneath this layer of deceptive shell. A prison made out of your own skin. Fragile. A series of sinister vibrations delivered by the air is enough to seal your doors and windows, enough to destroy and demolish you as you tremble silently, with the all of you trapped in this tomb. It is penetrable to everything, but to your incomplete, half-primordial form.
Does It Contain You Well?
Does it contain you well, this chamber? Does it mute the wailings of the world so you can finally hear the thumping of your own heart as it speaks to you, things said from all the ghosts you keep in the core of you? Does it force you to deal with buried things, long lost and longingly latching to the walls of your memories? Does it help you at all, to get used to using your own voice as you talk to yourself out loud?
Does it help you forget the unbreakable sense of displacement, the nagging hints of disappointment, the too-loud shrieking of failure that has been consistently rolling and crashing against your spine, all throughout these years? Does it help at all to be cradled in this vessel nature has convinced you to be stuck in? Does it provide you with enough epiphanies to quench your confusion as to why all those cries for help, those that have decorated a lifetime worth of past, have been left unanswered?
Or does it just remind you of all the things you’re missing out on, of all the things you’re not and never were, as you gamble your natural structure for the one in a million chance of surviving your shell – to emerge, evolved?
And do you know, if you will survive all this?
You don’t know, but with the speed and determination of electricity you fatten and peel yourself into a plumpy shell. You, intentionally, render yourself vulnerable, exposed while trapped to all sorts of turbulence fate can imagine perchance they are imagined for you. Defenseless, you remain, as if in a state of constant dreaming. You wait, and wait for the right swaying of the wind, the right moment of day or night, the right whispers from all the movements of the things around you, to take the next step.
In the meantime, you pulsate, purposefully. You latch on to a singular vein in life and urge it to pump you, to nourish you as you quiver within the pressures of your own walls. You hang there, shivering; feverish with the dreams of erupting into a thing with wings.
Of Hope and Mortality
Dhiyanah Hassan doesn’t know how to behave, so she draws. “You Pupate, Pupally” is the first entry of her project, whose title keeps changing – she’s calling it Kukolka for now.
She has a brain-breaking phobia of butterflies and moths, but apparently this hasn’t stopped her from obsessing about them.
(Blog on hiatus)