Surfacing

It’s times like these my id comes screaming, soaring to the surface, suffocating for breath after interminable hibernation, gasping for some impetuous dimension of vision, noise, taste and smell and touch; for swathes of love and swats of pain; for the burn of fever and lust and palpable palpitations of ever-and-ever-amen choruses that whisper and tease and lure with gauzy hope. This is the assenting ascension that will surely touch the bounds of some future promise, sans the vicissitude of history with its unabating ability to turn frustration into hope, hope to anger, and anger to frustration. This is the id that ablates ego and super ego. This is the ethereal buoyancy of transcendence that leads to at best affirmation, at worst annihilation.

 

Go Sox.