Saturation

I encountered literary porn this weekend. 

It was the sort of occasion demanding confrontation with an old friend - the novel. With a semi-truamatizing traveling incident leaving me stripped of my father's generous donation to the chemo-doesn't-have-to-suck-that-much fund, I had to salvage the next-best distraction. I fell in rapture over the apt lines, the descriptions "just-so". I even underlined. 

I couldn't decide if my enjoyment stemmed purely from the text itself or my recently-misplaced ability to focus on such a thing. You see, chemo steals not only one's hair, sanity, strength, will to live, but also one's ability to focus. But I suppose that has some overlap with the aforementioned. It also leaves a bad taste in one's mouth(literally). I dream of days when water tickles the tongue in cascade, the way it's supposed to. When you have the association of purity with a particular substance, subtle tricks of the senses can really do you in. My sense of smell is another devil in itself, deliberately delving itself into bouquets of fetid, sharp, and overwhelming. Truly catering to the already aromatic, airy atmosphere. And by that I mean, stuffy spaces crammed with antiseptic-coated seats and McDonald's bags. 

But enough of my senses, let us get a sense of the sensual selection of text. (The alliteration was totally necessary, ahem.)

Rand has triggered my lyric-finder. Once used predominantly to capture the angst suspended above a 3-chord melody, it has found itself restless as of late. But to find what? Lines with the right flow and the right association to be tucked away for later plastering or recitation. 

Hopefully it will remain stimulated through my next journey through the tunnel of discomfort to the eventual decompress. Remain engaged until the fat lady sings(or unhooks my IV...) The very hopeful end to an end less satisfying.

Though at the very least, please let it be an end.