Good Writtens

It's not like suicide was an option, ever. But it never wasn't, either. I'm a happy person. I'm content in the day, in the night. I'm satisfied, I feel validated. Either way, something isn't right. It's the ultimate unwanting: it's the essence of living in the moment. It's like this:

You have the sensation to want to sneeze. The tickle, first comes from somewhere in the chest that you've never quite traveled to. It moves upward into your face. You know it, then, as a need to sneeze. Something happens. The hair on your arms stand up and it's like the sneeze is a word resting on the tip of your tongue; it's a dream you can't quite translate into words; it's a sensation like no other. It moves. It's fleeting. They say look into the light. Bad advice, if you're dying. Ring around the rosey. It all makes sense - it's death in small doses. Incremental. It subsides. You're left, upset. Life, as you know it, resumes. Then, it comes as a wave. As a colosal tidal dream of the ocean you can recount each and every step of. The smells, the voices, who was there, and, most importantly, why you are there. You sneeze. The hair on your arms raises again, differently. Suddenly. Some say orgasmic. I say it's the sin of the century. It's hedonistic. It's natural. It's you in the moment. It disappears.

So, why is that no one ever dreams of sneezing?