A catharsis after a decade of a look. A look that says you are beneath me, you are for me to ridicule, this look. A catharsis. It happened so crisply, and it was clear as the air in front of my eyes. So clear that I could touch it. And the more I touched it, with my mind, the more the bottle of the look, collected over a lifetime, solidified inside me. It was so tangible that I breathed, at break, with my eyes fixed on the bottle rigid straight in my sight, close as the stars surrounding the moon at night. I could smell it, and feel the scent in my fists. I hoped that they would lose, although I kept my whistle separate of those feelings. When it ended, that hope was granted, and next, I grabbed the bottle from its fixated spot in front of my view, and clenched it tight within my fist. That was my energy, my will, my fist that snatched and clenched the smooth glass surface as the trunk of an oak melts to engulf a wrapping metal pole through growth. There is no crack, no creaking or creeping split that webs incrementally outward from the point of pressure—just a complete shattering; all at once. Shatter. And my fist bleeds like a heart, oozing from the inner chamber of the clamped knuckles and shards of glass, cutting. The bottle is empty, the stale years-old air diffusing freely and dancing chaotically as the movement of particles. Everywhere. Arms lined down my side, the catharsis shoots straight upward like a rocket spewing blastoff out of my lungs, into the thousand looks that were once collected from various points, incidences, of my life. The look stands now as a fraud, like a cheap fraud, as all looks are, and looks down. As the stale air slowly diffuses to rejoin the omnipresent entity of fresh oxygen, adrenaline drips rhythmically down my temples as rain off a blade of grass, and a catharsis runs clear water through every stagnant, yearning groove of the innards of my thirsty soul.
March 14, 2002. 11:21pm