Irritation and lightheadedness are a constant. However, I am getting used to this. I debate whether or not I should give up the fast, since it hasn’t served me at all. There are no white-hot epiphanies, no holy saint temporarily inhabiting my body, no inspired push off the platform I have been hanging on. This is performance art, at its most absurd. My audience is composed of buzzing thoughts that lack the energy to be understood.
There is always someone out there, willing to devour any experience whole. They would see this, and make something of it. It would be displayed in a museum, with just the right lighting. I would tell a person pretending to listen, that it was my idea. All someone did is hunger after it, in a way I never learned to do. It was stolen from me. Though it would only sit on my shelf, it was mine to do with as I pleased. Including, waste its potential.
I am a little jar, spilling my contents on the table. My eyes are running on empty. This belly rumbles from the deep, demanding something to work with, to absorb. It sends out earthquakes to warn me. I will not move to please it. I seek a truth to be located through controlled suffering.