“The petroglyphs told the story of an unusual event.”
An event so precisely parsed even William could tell. Our handicapped language is still working, but I still can’t effortlessly illustrate this devastating event of a feeling – a muted implosion of serotonin and adrenaline through capillaries that discharge blind aggression like kerosene between teen King and Queen Dopamine. I need three bottles of codeine before I try to convey this allegory with metaphors, analogies, and similes like a Professor Dickens teaching the difference between two cities. I could borrow a French expression, add an Arabic adage, and toss in a Portuguese epigram. I can’t do this. I have to postpone this interpretation to deaf bones. I have to escape it – this feeling, this pain, this pleasure. I’m prone to combat these, although I don’t condone, trazodone until I’m monotone.
It’s starting. I can feel like heels sticking: no way for me to tap them home. My stomach is empty, but I can feel it expanding. I hate bloating. Ugh, I can’t swallow. I can’t even open my mouth. My lips are sticking! I can’t split them with my tongue. I just keep pushing, and I can feel the dryness of my taste buds scrape my bottom lip- Ah, I got it! No… my tongue just pushed through the top of my chin like 3-hour old bubblegum.
My eye just popped! I can’t see out of my right eye! I can’t see! I just felt my left eye slide down my cheek! I can’t raise my arms anymore! My fingers are stuck together like duck’s webbing. I can feel the change in elevation as my body sinks to the floor.
Bridgette, you’ve done so well to get this far. You’ve been driven down by so many people walking all over you. I know you’ve cried rivers that could challenge the strongest levee- dam. But you still look so pretty.
Bridgette, I know you feel bipolar. You’ve always felt so divided. I know you feel like two different people. But you’re connected to both sides- they’re both you.
Bridgette, you’re not being used. You’re not just an unappreciated tool. You have to understand that you’re helping people.
Bridgette, all this success has been eight years in the making. You’ve really been making big strides to normalcy. But you’ve got to open up to me.
The concept that you can pick up a work of fiction (a book, movie, show, game, etc.) that YOU KNOW FOR A FACT is a lie, and yet you will your brain to believe it. Media that is outright labeled ‘Fiction’, indicating to everyone that is false, made-up, dishonest, fraudulent- a lie, and yet we pretend the characters and situations and places are all real.
It’s not because we’re stupid. We believe a lie so we can enjoy it. Even if that means believing our beloved protagonist is harmed, mutilated, or even killed. This doesn’t mean we’re sadistic (well, maybe a little), it means we’re human. It means we want to relate to someone and care for them, even if the person isn’t real. It’s really quite lovely.
We’re willing to believe Chris Pratt is really just about to be eaten by dinosaurs. We’re willing to believe our toys come alive when we don’t see them, or you can make your house float with enough balloons. We’re willing to believe zombies are all around us. We’re even willing to feel that same fear and love and excitement vicariously.
We get to experience the most unbelievable situations and circumstances while sitting in a comfy chair, eating popcorn and drinking Coke.
And if we didn’t have this psychological phenomenon- if we weren’t completely willing to believe a lie, even when it is labeled as such, then we wouldn’t have fiction.
A hand outstretched, in hopes of partnership to rebuild the lost: from a dissed utopia to a dystopia. Annexation of their civilization was just conservation. No one can make it alone anymore. Not him. Not them. But together, their survivability increased exponentially.
But his hand shook.
He was nervous. No, he was thirsty. He was hungry. They had run out of food that wasn’t radiated, outdated, or emaciated. They needed to be satiated.
Dirt rested in the creases of his palm. A thin layer of sweat coated his hand. Blisters were at the base of each finger.