Count For Yourself.
Count For Yourself.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Take in each breath slowly, taste the sweetness of oxygen, then let it go.
Exhale, then pause. Don't let the lusciousness of air enter your lungs. Feel the pressure of the lack of something. Do you feel it now? Feel gravity slowly crushing your insides, let it crush you. Remain as still as possible for as long as you can, until you can't take it any longer. Until you feel as if you will die.
Breath in slowly, feel the sharp pain of the return of oxygen.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
The show begins. Each fluid motion, every single movement, you've practiced over and over in your head for what seems like an eternity.
Don't think about what your doing too much. Don't question yourself. You could do this in your sleep. Let your subconscious control your body, let it pull your strings. Become the object of entertainment--you are one with what the audience wants.
Let go of the flag at the right moment; don't hesitate in fear of letting it fall. Feel the exhilaration when you throw higher than you ever had before, allow the joy to consume every cell of your body. Then, no matter what, catch the flag. The satisfaction comes when you have caught it, when you have achieved your goal.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The clock ticks at you. You wait. You try to occupy yourself, but absolutely nothing can draw your attention away for more than a few seconds. Impatience fills every limb, makes you restless.
Feel it in your legs, you pace in a circle. Your body does anything to try to keep you occupied. Your hands tap on any solid surface, taps the rhythm of some unknown lullaby to ease your restless mind. It would be so much easier--more comprehensible--if you knew what you were waiting on. But you don't. You continue to wait.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Can you even make it out alive? Nothing seems worth it anymore.
Remember each memory. Watch it pass before your inner eye, dimmed from lack of light. Feel frustrated. You want to move out so quickly, and yet, you don't. You enjoy the now, every single little moment. You accept things will need to progress at some point at time--sometimes even lusting for it--but things are so amazing. But it would be so convenient if progress would hurry up and arrive.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Open the book. Pick up where you left off. Run your fingers across the pages, smell the musty aroma. Feel at home.
Read about every character you've visited so much, they could be real. Read about situations with an omnipotent feeling--you know what happens. Feel the urge to crawl inside the book and become one of the ink stamped letters. You are safe here.
It's an escape from reality, a new look on things. You won't be hurt by a book, you are in the author's hands. He or she can take you wherever they want. It's their story, and they are in control. Each decision, each little moment, they control it. They decide what kind of feeling you will leave with--each little sigh, tear, smile, and giggle. They are like gods of the imagination.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
And if I had to describe how you make me feel, I suppose I would tell you to count from one to twenty-four. Its the closest description I have to give you.
Yeah. I'm not sure where this came from, but in my head for the past few weeks I've been going "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight." Counting has taken over a large part of my life--with guard and all--so I finally decided there was a short story waiting very impatiently to be written, so I finally got it down.
My stories can be very pushy when they want to exist in the real world.
Take in each breath slowly, taste the sweetness of oxygen, then let it go.
Exhale, then pause. Don't let the lusciousness of air enter your lungs. Feel the pressure of the lack of something. Do you feel it now? Feel gravity slowly crushing your insides, let it crush you. Remain as still as possible for as long as you can, until you can't take it any longer. Until you feel as if you will die.
Breath in slowly, feel the sharp pain of the return of oxygen.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
The show begins. Each fluid motion, every single movement, you've practiced over and over in your head for what seems like an eternity.
Don't think about what your doing too much. Don't question yourself. You could do this in your sleep. Let your subconscious control your body, let it pull your strings. Become the object of entertainment--you are one with what the audience wants.
Let go of the flag at the right moment; don't hesitate in fear of letting it fall. Feel the exhilaration when you throw higher than you ever had before, allow the joy to consume every cell of your body. Then, no matter what, catch the flag. The satisfaction comes when you have caught it, when you have achieved your goal.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The clock ticks at you. You wait. You try to occupy yourself, but absolutely nothing can draw your attention away for more than a few seconds. Impatience fills every limb, makes you restless.
Feel it in your legs, you pace in a circle. Your body does anything to try to keep you occupied. Your hands tap on any solid surface, taps the rhythm of some unknown lullaby to ease your restless mind. It would be so much easier--more comprehensible--if you knew what you were waiting on. But you don't. You continue to wait.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Can you even make it out alive? Nothing seems worth it anymore.
Remember each memory. Watch it pass before your inner eye, dimmed from lack of light. Feel frustrated. You want to move out so quickly, and yet, you don't. You enjoy the now, every single little moment. You accept things will need to progress at some point at time--sometimes even lusting for it--but things are so amazing. But it would be so convenient if progress would hurry up and arrive.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
Open the book. Pick up where you left off. Run your fingers across the pages, smell the musty aroma. Feel at home.
Read about every character you've visited so much, they could be real. Read about situations with an omnipotent feeling--you know what happens. Feel the urge to crawl inside the book and become one of the ink stamped letters. You are safe here.
It's an escape from reality, a new look on things. You won't be hurt by a book, you are in the author's hands. He or she can take you wherever they want. It's their story, and they are in control. Each decision, each little moment, they control it. They decide what kind of feeling you will leave with--each little sigh, tear, smile, and giggle. They are like gods of the imagination.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
And if I had to describe how you make me feel, I suppose I would tell you to count from one to twenty-four. Its the closest description I have to give you.
Yeah. I'm not sure where this came from, but in my head for the past few weeks I've been going "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight." Counting has taken over a large part of my life--with guard and all--so I finally decided there was a short story waiting very impatiently to be written, so I finally got it down.
My stories can be very pushy when they want to exist in the real world.