Suspended Disbelief

[neurotika]

The moment drops.
Like a plate falling
In slow motion,
Each frame of its impact with the floor
Is drawn out
Into one prolonged shattering.

She emerges from the crash
A little worse for wear.
Her hair mussed,
Her lips red and swollen,
Her skin damp with sweat,
It seems like she's
Been beaten,
Been in a fight.
And in a way she has -
A natural pacifist,
Normally resigned,
When she fights
It's always the same fight.
When she fights
It's always the same loss.

She curls up on the floor,
Trying to block the world out
With the usual histrionics.
"I should be bleeding,"
She thinks.
"For what I've exposed,
Pried open,
I should gush."
And the music gushes from speakers,
Flooding her,
Soaking her.
And for the first time in a long time,
She allows herself to be pulled under.

In the silence from under the sound,
In the calm beneath the waves,
She ponders
Thinking about thinking.
Through the numbness
Of overwhelmed faculties,
She understands transcendentalism -
It is the senses
That keep us from truly feeling,
It is pleasure
That guarantees our pain.

On one tenet, however,
She believes they were mistaken -
Inside every person
Is not the inherent light,
The potential for goodness,
The unlimited hope.

There is only the pure lack of these,
A depression in the rock
Where they should reside;
There exists only the capacity
For infinite sadness.