Look while you are leaping.
My cellular phone allows me to dial eleven digits with the push of a button. Blast my digital phone book. It is like firing a gun. If people had to dial eleven digits before firing a gun there would be far fewer murders in this country each year. If my cell phone hadn't been installed with a quickdraw feature, perhaps I wouldn't have shot myself in the foot fifteen minutes ago.
I am bleeding profusely.
Of course I am not literally bleeding. Real blood would be a welcome sight at this point. Something I could see, smell, touch -- rub between my fingers until it congealed and became sticky. Nay. I am faced with something far more intangible than all of that. This feeling comes from my brain. It psychosomatically rearanges my innards, sinking my heart and pushing my stomach into my lungs.
How did this all start? By my thumb -- my opposable thumb -- the thumb that started my ancestors on the road to these complex, abstract, and intangible emotions -- it was with the action of my thumb upon the "send" button: BLEOOP. That is how this started.
My mouth wasn't ready. My speach hadn't been edited. My thumb was listening to my heart, recieving orders to do what had already been deemed futile by my brain. The heart and the brain are always quareling.
BLEOOP, nonetheless, and the signal was sent -- weaving its way out of the atmosphere and bouncing back down via satilite, making this sound all the way: RING RING RING. I took deep, measured breaths, composing in my mind. My plan of attack. My heart is crafty. It knows that my brain can work fast if forced. My heart, the daring, had enlisted my thumb in an attempt to get my brain out of its funk, its malaise, to make it scramble -- just to get a rise out of it. My brain will thank my heart later for this. However, now it has no time to think about the future. RING RING RING. Deep, measured breaths.
Answering machine. Dumb message. Again on the internet at odd hours, purging my thoughts.
Goodnight.
I am bleeding profusely.
Of course I am not literally bleeding. Real blood would be a welcome sight at this point. Something I could see, smell, touch -- rub between my fingers until it congealed and became sticky. Nay. I am faced with something far more intangible than all of that. This feeling comes from my brain. It psychosomatically rearanges my innards, sinking my heart and pushing my stomach into my lungs.
How did this all start? By my thumb -- my opposable thumb -- the thumb that started my ancestors on the road to these complex, abstract, and intangible emotions -- it was with the action of my thumb upon the "send" button: BLEOOP. That is how this started.
My mouth wasn't ready. My speach hadn't been edited. My thumb was listening to my heart, recieving orders to do what had already been deemed futile by my brain. The heart and the brain are always quareling.
BLEOOP, nonetheless, and the signal was sent -- weaving its way out of the atmosphere and bouncing back down via satilite, making this sound all the way: RING RING RING. I took deep, measured breaths, composing in my mind. My plan of attack. My heart is crafty. It knows that my brain can work fast if forced. My heart, the daring, had enlisted my thumb in an attempt to get my brain out of its funk, its malaise, to make it scramble -- just to get a rise out of it. My brain will thank my heart later for this. However, now it has no time to think about the future. RING RING RING. Deep, measured breaths.
Answering machine. Dumb message. Again on the internet at odd hours, purging my thoughts.
Goodnight.