Fever Pitch

First came the bubbles, then the flush of heat, my hands and face went numb and I wondered if I would be able to finish either lavatory project I started before I passed out. Three days now, no yoga, little sleep, too much spice on an empty stomach sends me back to square one. The body has a way of self-regulating it's energy. I was obviously running on high for far too long. Vivian peeled her layers off on the car and train rides from the coast. I saved mine up until now. Conscience and consciousness flow like waves through my memories, alone with my thoughts and migraines I can lord judgment upon my transgressions, question my good motives that led me to where I am at. Where we are all at. Am I the butterfly tempting the world to help me shed? Is my catharsis enough to give back? Sleep takes me at a whim, then spits me back upon the shore of fitfulness too soon to drift off to sea. Curtains of haze rain down on my left-sided-thoughts, pressing shafts of pain and heat through my ears, and I hear the voice again. When did I hear it last? I was young, too young for a fever delirium like this. I was at the beach. It was new and I was safe. Now older I hear the same ocean still echo, was it only a year ago? Sepia storms mist me in false shadows, now again the ocean a loop of white noise waxing to wake me again, just enough to feel the heat burn through my eyes, another wave pulls the sheet back over me and I search for the fleeting image of calm salvation on familiar shores.

--- aeryk ---