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suffocation, the goddess of all motherfuckers
jose rojo
22 Feb 2003
The coffee mixes around with the mints in my mouth that are sugar poor substitutes for cigarettes. You cannot parlay simple sugars into the power of a drug. I can feel my breath freeze in my lungs; anxiety throws pipe bombs in my chest.
I had a neighbor once that died from inhalation of helium: The doctor informed his family that continued use of helium can potentially freeze the lungs. My neighbor suffocated.
And I become claustrophobic when looking down into the small hole on the top of my cup of coffee. I must cure this phobic slip-of-the-tongue.
Its nine pm, only an addict would drink a stimulant this late in the day.
To me, this is suffocation: blue blazed lights fill the eyes in panic, a terminal scream snaps through the neurons but never emerges. Your mind works, the body objects.
This is exactly the opposite of what occurs during a temptation to whatever infidelity; the polar south of libido control: the body willing, the mind objects. There is no guilt during suffocation, no guilt during sex. But after the first drag of air and pure oxygen, after the cigarette straining into your lungs post-sex you know that even if you never tell, you've been had. After realizing that you're unable to backpeddle, the expectation always exceeds the product.
Quitting smoking has the same effect while seated under the rows of white powdered light coming from the drop ceiling-its never as good as you think. This is suffocation, panic, acid driven worry and guilt.
What else do you think your brain produces but some of the strongest drugs man can find? You think the serotonin that drops raving sweaty teenagers like a sniper-- through coronary thrombosis-- is nothing more than artificial? Certainly not, these are twenty-first century monologues determined to keep you talking to the six feet of earth piled over your casket.
This is suffocation.
(copyright 2003. R.C. Daley. All Rights Reserved)
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