Dec 11, 2007
Inside my right leg is a long artery containing elephants marching toward my aorta. They are fueled by loud post-rock and dusty books in stacks bandied about. They are making eyes at the walls of my bloodstream, but only peripherally. Their squadron leaders will not allow their heads to move, as they are on a mission.
I can feel them marching, but it is not an itch-- instead it feels like a constant dull pain. It's like the way loneliness feels on especially rough weeks-- the inability to speak into empty rooms, the inability to care what others say in crowded ones-- only with the immediacy failing health pressing down on each ventricle trying to rush in aid against the march.
There's no stopping them now, though. The elephants are viral-like and sweeping through without casualty. The neither grow in size nor mentality. They do not sleep; just tramp along putting weight in their backstep to allow me the privilege and pleasure of knowing they exist, where they are exactly and their minute trudge forward toward important areas of my inner workings.
If I'm to die, the elephants will march out through my mouth, trudge over my scraggly beard and find a new way to avoid the lights of outside. Such is life. Vive L'Elefant.