Tester

or in ever growing sedative labor.
The athleticism of the seat, the
micro-motions of the sitter. The
agility of the writer sitting for indefatigable
hours, the fortitude of
the office worker’s 50+ hour week.
What eats me? Lying in this bed all
week long, suspended in a blinding
monotony but not outside of the
spiritual ecstasy. Every moment I
escape boredom—the desire for
desires—I conquer something
pressing in from all angles around
me, and I am a spirit, even if I am
sick, stuck in my room, in a storm.
Now, sleep feels cathartic. It’s
an active form of expression. Then,
my phone starts buzzing, disrupting
my body’s breathing rhythms.
I am annoyed and I experience fits
of falling and catching myself in
and out of sleep dimensions. A not
so gentle compulsion pulls me into
the grasp of messages and media.
My phone is an over-sexed machine.
Its seductive round edges fit
together with my own curves and
it flirts endlessly with my desiring
social body. Without a thought I
am scrolling through Facebook,
lost in a fevered fugue state, spit
out the other side some countless
dozens of minutes later, violated by
my own lack of conscious consent.
The power has surged one
too many times and gone out. I
like to think that the power is
out throughout the city. I have a
headlamp and a few extra AAA
batteries lying about. I’m listening
to the sounds outside. The
rain whips against the window in
syncopated rhythms and the wind
unfurls a bass that shakes me to my
core. There is no escape from these
sounds and I sink into the serenity
of the storm’s embrace.
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