ophelinhap

Literature, poetry, lots of books and just some stuff I write

Roller coasters

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I have always been scared of roller coasters.
Not scared like I am when it comes to blood: the kind of scared that makes you want something so badly, yet being afraid of reaching out and touching it.
I would be amusingly scared when looking at them, quite preoccupied queuing from them (after much talking and debating with myself the pros and cons of wanting something so badly, yet being so terrified), kinda anxious seating in the wagon, nauseous at the beginning, in tenterhooks after the first, tentative, easy part of the ride, utterly horrified while going up, up, up.
But in going down the magic would happen: the fear would mingle with excitement and together they would explode, leaving me ever so light, so ethereal, so close to the sky that I would only have to stretch my arm in order to touch the stars. leaving me with the estranged, morbid wish that death could be something like that, leaving all your fears behind and getting lighter and lighter and lighter reaching for the clouds, mingling with them, dissolving into them. Not a farewell but just a goodbye, not an ending but a transformation.
Anyway, I found out I had never really been on a roller coaster when I first met you, and my gut instinct (it’s always the guts) told me to run as fast as I could, but there I stayed, dumbstruck.
I had to stay, as simple as that, even when my staying was just a redundant, empty gesture, my self-esteem a new born lamb sacrificed to the altar of your vanity. I had to stay, even when you were running my bare soul in the spin cycle, and I was freefalling.
It wasn’t falling in love, it was falling from it and through it, far away from any possible state of grace, sailing through tough days and breath taking moments, loneliness and completeness, utter misery and thorough bliss. (Breath and guts, it was always a question of breath and guts)
You were my own roller coaster. It was by far the scariest, the bumpiest, the wildest ride of all. The triple jump of my guts, the sheer vitality, the blindness, the elation, the enchantment, the sheer frustration gave my fall from grace a certain dignity, a sobriety, a solemnity, a feeling of unavoidability.

Now I am left with a ball of thread made of words, our words (elated, smitten, besotted. Who knew the English language could be so enthralling).

And I am still lost for words, and I am still catching my breath. And I am still falling.

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This entry was posted on April 20, 2015 by in Stuff I write and tagged .
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