Equilibrium. My breath flows gently, evenly, soft as the lunar pulling of the tides, scented sweetly with rose and tulip fragrance. I am unlabored. My limbs, my kinesiology, function at optimum level, joints bending, muscles pulling and releasing. Pathology is a topic taboo, unspoken, for why should it exist? Clouds shed ample water to nurture and cultivate crops for a plentiful harvest. Hush, the fertile ground whispers to the girl, fear not, as pain and suffering are banished to the periphery, antiquated tales told solely to draw remembrance to what has passed and what could come to be. Words and phrases escape my lips in dances of restraint, tight waltzes danced by lovers who do not misstep. My mind turns with clockwork efficiency, correctly chiming hours, half hours, quarter hours. My lips curve into smiles soft as rolling hills, relaxed and unstrained, manifesting and subsiding with consideration and precision. I do not swing but stand with determination, yet permanency and consistency are not components of my vernacular.
The pendulum begins to sway. My ship is crushing against tempestuous waters, waves of salty tears spilling across wooden decks. I attempt to steer the mast, yet my efforts are of little avail. My breath reeks, betraying the sweet utterances I spew forth, exposing the lies frolicking in glee. I am adept at hiding, at foolery, but the putrid sewer water seeping through the gaping pores in my diminishing and cowering epidermis offer no refuge. I am exposed, burnt to blisters by the harsh Saharan sun, and I can no longer withhold the fluid from my weeping sores.
The swinging pendulum peaks to the left. The putrid sewer water has inundated my lungs and my alveoli can no longer sequester oxygen from the once sweet inhale. Rather the poison pumps through my vascular system, slowly failing organ by organ, each destined to the same fate. I open my mouth to speak, yet all that escapes chapped, bleeding lips are gurgles and coos, my linguistic powers reduced to that of an infant. Regression draws me to the land where the happenings of the physical world are insignificant and no longer relevant. I am relegated with joy to death row, accompanied by the sickest and most depraved of criminals. Yet I know with undying conviction my own sickness, the crimes of which I am guilty, punishable to the fullest extent of the law. My stomach begins empty. What nutrition and sustenance shall I need in death? The initiation of slow starvation prepares my mind and body for the realm of the dead. Why fight what is soon to pass?
The pendulum swings to the right. My body miraculously reverts from a stage of deprivation to a stage of plenty. Where words were once defiled or absent now pour forth with the gushing and arcing of arterial spray, lifeblood coursing through expanding vessels and illuminating the world in a splashing splay of vitality and increasing wellness. The taste is palpable, metallic yet pleasing to the tongue. Stagnant neurons in my brain receive incessant telegrams, synapses once dead springing to work and shooting newfound energy through thirsty cells and across unlocked barriers. The signs flash “Open for Business,” and the clockwork turns. However the dance quickens, gains in speed and momentum. The dancers begin to misstep, trip, fall. The music quickens to a deadening roar. Moles dig their way into my brain and nibble and snack on my neurons, jumbling the thoughts and connections. What was once pleasurable has metamorphosed into decimation. The gray matter of my brain rebels, wielding sledgehammers to escape what has now become a camp for prisoners of war. The question lies, will there be veterans?
The pendulum swings once again to the left, and then to the right, rapidly diminishing in the distance to which it travels. Finally, in an answer of prayer, the pendulum reaches equilibrium. The pendulum will sway once again and threaten to decimate my existence, yet I pray, let there be an eventual equilibrium, for the pendulum can only swing so many times.