alone and a loner.

The dust, it fills my mouth, turning to mud. My lips caked
with clay….

I haven’t had water since last night, I
would have traded my left hand for a gallon of water. Not my right
hand though, maybe in a couple hours I would but not now, I’m not at
the point total exhaustion, yet. I suppose that after I did trade my
hand for some water and I made it out of this fryer I would regret
making that decision as I sat sipping lemonade on a veranda,
discussing this situation with some clever friends of mine. I would
question whether I really would have died of dehydration, if I could
have kept the hand, denied the water, and just toughed it out. The
pain of this moment would be numbed with that haze that all memories
have. I would forget how dry it was, how red and burned my skin was,
how my body would not sweat anymore. I would regret my choice. If I
died, however, I would not be able to regret. I am glad that this is
a hypothetical dilemma. I don’t suppose anyone would want to trade
water for a severed human hand anyway. It’s one of those things that
is only valuable to the original owner, like childhood teddy bears and
kids. You don’t really care about someone else’s kids, you just want
them to shut up in public and stay out of your yard. The type of
person who would suggest a swap like that would certainly be demented
and not trustworthy at all. They might take my hand and leave me to
burn to death without the water.
I think that it is also strange that I am thinking of things like
this, I would assume that someone who is in as hopeless of a
situation as this would be thinking more basic thoughts more
repetitive and animalistic. Perhaps repeating the words, water,
water, water, or focusing on memories of rain and tall pitchers of
water with ice filling the top half, bobbing above the surface.
However, I am not. I am playing out hypothetical situations of me
trading body parts with psychopaths for beverages. I hope I survive
this so I can write this down, what am I thinking, no one would want
to read this anyway, its not really a story and its too wordy to be a
poem. There’s no beginning middle and end, no solution, I guess there
is an antagonist, me, and the opposition which is obviously the desert
and probably my own loss of hope. I should just lay hear and sizzle
to death, I feel like an ant wandering across a griddle.

alone and a loner.


Joined February 2008

  • Artist
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