7 Days in Hell - An Oxymoron
Day 1: You wake up and your lungs want to collapse from overuse. Your voice is hoarse from an unknown contaminant. Expel the disturbing demon that pulls the strings entwined to you. You want to exorcise it and end all the infectious nonsense you've come to terms with, but it's not that easy. You have a project to do. You have grades to maintain. You have a day to complete it. 24 hours of putting pressure onto plastic keys, type-type-typing a research paper while wheezing and hacking and oozing bodily fluids that even make yourself sicker than you already are.
Welcome to Hell.
Get Down with the Sickness.
It's staying for a while.
Day 2: Time for uniforms, pencils and rotating stencils. Projects are ready to cook.
The teacher has pens and papers and the occasional eraser. Time to get the letter of the day.
A, B, C, or F. You won't B C'ing A "D".
Great presentations and ecstatic elations. The pressure of failing is gone.
Careful coughing and sickening sneezing. Flu is the reason for the season.
Only, what you want is not what you get. Ominous music is cued.
Tired and tired of walking with bugs. The violence is told in tune.
Melting mucous and un-phunny phlegm. I'm feeling suddenly phlegmatic.
Stop the music inside. My head, can't take it, anymore.
The silence ensues. The Delsym helps. Day 3 is in the barrel.
Day 3: Talking hurts.
Stethoscopic, germophobic, the big hand strikes the four.
The nurses come and go, saying, tests will diagnose me.
Swabs and needles enter openings. Tears and pain will fill them.
Wait, halt, the pain has stopped. What's my diagnosis, doc?
Acute tonsillitis and symmetrical ear infections. Nicely done, my divine connection.
Time to take my new confection and start the next day's dissection.
Day 4: Pulsating respiratory eruption. Quarantined saliva mists mystically fade away into everyday gaseous ammunition.
Busy beat-boxing and heavy head-banging. Punk rock makes good therapy.
Super sore throats and corruptive cough-coughing? That doesn't always bring me down.
Friends call with a friend's passing? That dug into my heart.
Day 5: A face to the name and a name to the face. I wish I had one to match.
Think-thank-thunk and a one, two, three. I can't remember who he'd be.
No more running down those dreams. To know for sure, I'd have to see.
"Hey, Jorge, my man. Do something for me?
I don't think I knew him. A picture, please?"
Pings and pangs and no where to flee.
The face to the name and he's faced at me.
Johnathon Perez, dead at sixteen.
Day 6: Education. Ever so numbingly droning. Moving as slowly as the words that seep their way into the passageway called an ear. Slithering slightly and skating with style. Sounds that slip and slide into your consciousness. It's so invigorating. Inviting you to initiate yourself in an intimate intricate interval where vowels just voluminously vandalize your volunteering, vocal vantage points. Ever wonder where the whispering winds wing their way to? No, not the Stairway to Heaven. If you see it, you're spending too much unrelated, unimportant time with Mary Jane, but by day 6, you're not fond of her any more, or at least, you shouldn't be. I wouldn't be, I'd be wishing for something more meaningful than a heavenly probability.
Oh, every class is a circle. The period numbers represent nothing. The classes themselves represent nothing. The subject matter of the day's lecture represents nothing, regardless if it was new or reviewed material. What makes it a circle of Hell is how my mind reacts chameleon-like to the actions in every room. The following words are automatons to the mental compass stenciling itself away to the perfect circle, only to be removed and uninstalled when the realization is clear:
The First Circle: The secular student atheists questioning their fellow brothers for believing in a God that punishes those who kill themselves, but yet, His disciples, the Presbyterian puppet who practices his promising eulogy, says he's in a better place, when the unspoken truth is that he's burning. A priest has no right to announce a truth like that should be understood. We all have no right to fathom where he'd be, except for it being another place beyond our comprehension. Interpretation is to each their own, but to instill it into the incomparable minds of the lay people is an unspoken offensive truth.
The moral of the first circle is to question, only passing through if you're solid of your beliefs, whatever they may be.
The Second Circle: Lazy, lustful losers lollingly list their love's little perks to lokinously let them down lightly. They surround me and surreally converse their plans without a care for the opposite sex. Pornographic priestesses propel themselves pompously throughout the period in pictures, laced with LED. My frustration with federally incriminating fixating evidence will eventually and evidently deteriorate my denominating discernment concerning my brothers' behavior, but that's not my kind of bind to mind.
The moral for the second circle to mind your own business during times of extreme immoral outbreak, only passing through if you actually care enough not to make a statement that could potentially cause unneeded controversy.
The Third Circle: Food-crazed and frenzied, elongated babies ravage the containers of chocolate-glazed maybes. No attention paid to ravenously made rations. Attack the attentive tigers who violently encourage eating the elite ingredients inside confections, and slowly kill the kids who routinely ingest the goodies.
The moral of the third circle is make rations from buffets, passing through if you take the first bite towards moderation. If a mountain is given to you, erode it and turn it into a slightly elevated slope.
The Fourth Circle: A complex analysis of juvenile division between social classes in a school environment, predicted by none before this subsequent figurative parallel. A school, undeniably wealthy in financial support, with kids that cataclysmically distance themselves through a fine example of modern feudalism. Middle, upper, and lower are weightless words that paint a picture with the power to alienate dozens. Money is five letters long and infinitely distancing. The moral of the fourth circle is to freely and generously spread the wealth to those who don't expect it. You only pass through if you don't force another to give. Just because he or she has a surplus, does not make them eligible to deplete their winnings on command.
The Fifth Circle: Vini vidi vicci and a horrid upper-sieging of the territory taken by an ironhidden giant on a fire breathing dragon over gaping skyscrapers in the city, and I'm barely beginning with the anger-ridden novel I'm preparing in your dreams. You'll only know I'm done when you hear your mother scream. 1. 2. 3. *snap*
The moral of the fifth and final circle I'll dictate is to take it down a notch when you've reached a rage considered "crossing the line". You'll only pass when you relax and freeze the inferno that fuels the hellfire.
Day 7: If there's a way I can end a week of insulin-flavored grief that lights up a road to recovery, it'd be by introducing a quote that's known to provoke a mind, imagining that my brain is a tiger and the quote is its prey, it'd be this: “We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.” Existentialism lives in all of us, it exists in all of us, but if there's a group that deserves to be denominated for bringing on their own branch of it, it would be those who wish for love and those who wish for life to close the book and write it off as a happy ending when we all know it ended a different way. How do you think I feel, given the one clue hidden above?
- Poetry Reading