#honeysick

There is in summer a heavy decadence untouched, unknown, and yet deeply sensed at times - thought to be sweet-smelling and sweet-tasting like rot and honey. Hot on one's skin, like rot once more, but so cool like the very summer's evening which brings it out, so jasmine-scented, so sickly honeysuckle-sweet and drowned in sticky, boiling blood. Untouched and untouchable, and unknowable, for to know it is to know Death so intimately, and none who live yet can know Death in such a way.

I think of it sometimes, when the sun goes through things like glass. It's a thing only I notice, I think...the glass air, when it is so. I know it's there though, I know it. I can see it, and it's at certain angles of sun, so I know it's not just my slanted mind and distant eyes.

…"And to that dauntless desert of my mind, the cool, fresh waters of mellow thought and simple experience are unthinkable." Though my own whirling sandstorm thoughts do, on occasion, die down and allow my frantic pleading soul to take refuge in - mere pleasure, wordless existence and full uncritical awareness of all things. But much of the time...it is all washed out, seeming less saturated to my sunbleached eyes (helpless), though I know of its vibrance. Or - I'll see its brilliance but not be able to attach emotion to it.

It feels festering and chronic and stagnant, and it results in my being impressively tired

Mmf, fill me...fill me with clover-scented decay, so sleepy and wasted but it's such a delectable disease, and it makes me…

It's better than being hollow and achingly empty. It's a necessary counterpart, too, to my other state, and a better and more whole one than when I writhe, entwisted in misery.