I am numb.
No, I am not numb. If I was numb, I would not be vibrating the way I am now. Rapid, rhythmic, palpitating pulsations snaking along the underside of my flesh, travel outward in every direction of my body. Like the vibrations are searching for a spot that isn't shaking yet, and are determined to cover every millimeter of my under skin with electric warmth.
Not the kind of warmth, though, that comforts. The kind that suffocates and invites lackluster emotional dampness. It presses me with the foreboding knowledge that I am perfectly suspended between hot, and cold. A pulse too strong, and I could sizzle in my skin, or a pulse too slow and I could seize up.
Words that burn and silence that freezes, are replicating in tandem, in the dank, dark corner of Hippocampus. Forever in charge of reliving my best and worst, it is no stranger to the warmth so consistently exuded from its upstairs neighbor, Hypothalamus. Heat rises after all. Good little tenants that know their landlord well, Hippocampus and Hypothalamus know if they steer me too far down a path without caution, I will give them no grace. So in sight of "consistency is key," they present to the back of my eyelids the story, the words, and silence, at the same speed, light, weight, potency, and temperature they always do. If kept here, at this frequency with this input, the output will always be the same: the warmth will stay. Spreading and readjusting and fixing itself to keep thrumming under flesh so no matter what temperature outside is, within is always warm.
Warm promises the possibility of change, but leaves it there. Controlled and consistent probability for the potential to experience an outcome, without the stimulation itself being necessary, because the desired effect of Warm isn't the stimulation, it's the space for it.
Everything within me is structured and instructed to regulate and control. Make sustainable. Provide an environment habitable for possibility. An expert, immunity, is top of the line in countering any illness, attack, or foreign substance that could harm the Warm. Skin thickens in areas more pressure is regularly applied, veins grow wider where more blood supply chains meet, hair grows where extra environmental protection is needed, oil pools when the flesh dries out, and sweat steams from the pores when influx in adrenal stimulation causes the body to overheat. And amongst all, the paradise itself. Encased in flesh, thick skull, and cerebrospinal fluid, is the most precious, where Hippocampus and Hypothalamus live together. The brain. The penthouse floor, set apart from the rest of the system, nervously. Precious cargo, floating in its own bath of carefully crafted warm soup.
Pink, grey, beige, textured or no, everyone has Warm in common. Without this, we would burn up or freeze over and die. Like insurance, warm is supposed to provide safety and encourage health. Warm is a state of idleness, an under stimulation. Vast expendable comfort. The possibility and promise of capacity for stimulation without risk. But to obtain the actual stimulation, is risk. Inviting it in is begging casualty, and allowing it to stay is certain death. Overstimulation. A hefty payment, indeed.
Three steps ahead, Warm is programmed to combat that risk and metabolize it, making it ready for consumption before it penetrates too deep and creates a hazard. An unstable temperature shift. It spoonfeeds us soup sensations. Warm is smart, and protects us from threats we can't even begin to process and this is what angers me so. All of these payments to Warm, for I know not what.
I long for procession. Unsavory, ill-tempered consumption. I long to know something before it has been made safe to touch. To know what threats lie in wait beyond the safe parameters of my warmed penthouse suite. To see ice frost me over and feel fire lick at my bones; nervously in shock at the abruptness of sensation not palpable yet to the security system of warm understanding I have involuntarily developed. Legally mandatory insurance.
Recollective dilution is a weaponized mechanism born in sensational preservation designed to destroy the truth and replace it with a parallel that won't cause irreversible and unsustainable damage to the structure that is our psychological integrity.
Warm claims the damages we can't afford to pay or consume at the time of impact without dying. And we live forever in debt to pay for Warm, whether risk of stimulation is present or not, in our perfect soup penthouse where Hippocampus and Hypothalamus are neighbors and replay the same story, words, silence, at the same speed, light, weight, potency sand temperature they always do, warm. Warm pain warm joy, warm life warm death.
No. In fact, no.
No, I am not numb. I can't quite remember why I am vibrating so, or what I am and I am not designed to.
And this warms me.
