Saturday, April 4, 2015

himself, more or less

He felt like himself, more or less. Maybe his limbs seemed a bit distant, not quite numb really, but poorly controlled, as though waking with almost no sleep. Sounds certainly seemed sharper, at least.

He stood far too still in the barely lit space.

Salvador took slow, deliberate stock of his thoughts and transient feelings. He felt, he felt curious. He felt surprised. He felt a bit disappointed, really. He felt that it was easier to note what he didn’t feel.

He felt no cold fire in his belly. He felt no manic drives or languorous villainy stirring in his chest. He felt no suprahuman lust churning in his loins. He felt no supreme hunger nor unmet need. He felt almost nothing as he ran his slender fingers through his mop of fine black of hair. Tentatively, he brushed his hand against the cool marble bier before him.

Except that it no longer felt cool. He waved his open hand wildly before him. Suddenly, Salvador spun on his naked heel and leapt onto a nearby sarcophagus.

He could scarcely sense the air all around his pale skin until he pressed into it. Without motion, without pressure, he stood in a surreal void of sensation.

His body was room temperature, he realized with a wry, empty grin. Without breath and flowing blood, the smallest sounds roared against the relative silence. It was beginning to make some measure of sense.

Why then did he feel so little, emotionally, he wondered? He continued to crouch dramatically in the neoclassical crypt, lost in thought. Perhaps there was some physiological component to emotion of which Salvador did not know.

He likely had a great deal of time to learn of it.

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