Poetry/Prose - Paralysis: Mannequin on Fashion Ave.

Inspired by a condominium of thoughts, and stylistically influenced by my interpretation of Regina Spektor's "Eet"

They call it an outer body experience. And they're right, that's exactly what it is.

It's like floating out in the universe, and watching the earth chug along on its axis.

Like planning a speech to the very last detail, only to be tongue-tied when the grand moment arrives.

Kin to doing the very thing you said you would never, ever, for the life of you do, and being achingly conscious as you're doing it.

It's like being a mannequin on Fashion Ave. in NYC, oohed and aahed at, but never quite understood.

They call it an outer body experience, but they forget the inner-body element.

The fact that each is a universe onto themselves, and that's what makes living so
annoyingly complex.

Eerily similar to that Grey's episode where a woman awoke during surgery and stared
down at her entrails.

Unable to move, unable to scream, unable to stop the many fingers from prying within.

Having to balance the outer universe, with the internal wonderland, and oh, make sure you smile while you're at it!

They call it an outer body experience, yet they haven't the slightest idea themselves.

About how you haven't a say in what you wear on this day or that

Or how you would trade in all the bling and fur they so admire, for a moment under the warmth of the sun,

And would give up your coveted post in the concrete jungle, for a minute with
someone you love.

Oh, what you would do to explore the entire spectrum of emotion!
To laugh, to cry, be happy and sad.

Yet all you're stuck with is lifeless, glazed over eyes from your numerous attempts to
have a good cry.

They call it an outer body experience, but it's really a lone planet thrown out of orbit.

A constant maneuver between what's beyond the glassed window display and what's embedded in your fiberglass structure.

A haphazard interaction between the wants, needs, dreams, hopes, fears, goals of Earth's inhabitants and their yet unknown "alien" neighbors.

Somewhere between here and there, yes and no, future and past.

You know exactly which key needs to be played to reinstate the harmonious melody,
but you can't do a damn thing about it.

Paralysis.

--

In all this insomnia and disorder, there comes a merciful moment of nothing but silence.

An overflowing vacuum of The Love that is, has been, and will always be.

When all care is tossed from within and upward, and you just trust.

For two or sometimes three glorious hours, you escape the madness into the
silence of your heart.

And in that moment, paralysis is the liberty you've been seeking all along.

Circumspecte