The precursor for that obtuse and acute guttural audible that connects the neurons that are the golden threads between the head and heart. The hitting of epidermis changes decibels with every implement, from skin to metal to wood to leather to plastic to etcetera. The outcry from time to time brings tears and it is in the form of pleasure and or pain – a polarized separation of juxtaposition, coming from one or the other. His pain, another’s pain, my pain, our pain.
The abrasive syncopated slapping of flesh on flesh. In a myriad of velocities and tempos, marked by a chorus of uncontrollable sighs and moans and grunts and gasps. This provocative orchestra that reverberates through the city’s thinnest walls that keep only a transparent layer of opaqueness over the mystery of strangers. Up and down and to and fro and hither and tither the opening and closing of the in and out unrelenting until the high note apex – then solemnly the aria of denouement proceeds. The exhaustion, the longing, the regret, the reddened skin. The pain of it almost being over.
The unheard of racket screaming in the mouth. Trapped inside of a warm wet place where the body’s most sensitive and resilient tissue lies. Colonies of cells waiting to replicate and replace, being heinously shed by the makings of the necessity of age sprung from youth. The aching waking homage to perhaps the most tenuous physical grief there is.
The apparition that harmoniously haunts the soul. That shocking school of pangs that are seemingly unavoidable even at the most distracting times when you have all the environmental factors lined up like anxious and willful dominoes, ready for the cause and effect to cascade – each and every piece of the stoic black and white bridge creating a grey sense of doubt of how the outcome will fall. Some pieces support and propel, but perhaps there will be that misstep amongst the conformed quadrilaterals if one solitary part of the puzzle is misplaced. That would end the effortless journey of it all falling down. The pain of having to pick them all up and start over again.
WHACK! SMACK! THROB! SOB!
Their pain brings a cloudiness over pains of my own. The loud WHACK startles the THROB of my perpetual antagonist – the main antihero character of my epic novel of the world of life that is my daily stage. The piercing SMACK calms me, knowing that it brings others delight in this pastime of pain and I thrive on the jealousy of not being afforded the opportunity to dole it out benevolently on my own with a suitable giver or receiver. The THROB brings me to tears in almost the worst way. I was never really busy with taking care of someone who wasn’t myself, so the humble reminder that I too am not impervious to harm, to hurt, to ungodly amounts of physical distress all caused by a tooth no larger than my fingernail – it is something to behold and appreciate I suppose; the physical pain distracts one from the emotional version. The SOB comes when I am at my wits’ end. In all of the tumult and in all the times I’ve learned more and more about the word, I still don’t know how to explain further (when asked), “Ich mag nicht Schmerz.”