Air Breathes

Every night I wished that holding my breath, for a sufficient amount of time, would make me fall asleep. "It only has to do with time" I said, and the ingredients of what makes air I breath compatible to my body is the inner and out reminisces of a dimension unknown to what I can't physically touch, or see. The senses that befall me: touch, taste, smell, etc., haven't a related connection with this unknown dimension; nonetheless it's there, and I do know it.

Holding my breath never made me sleep, no matter how blue I got. I called it the escape. For an amount of time that kept me conscious no air would retreat out my mouth, or open or closed holes and crevices of my body. Sometimes I call my body my bubble.

The outer extremities of air my body didn't breath, while holding my breath, held tightly near and against my lips and nostrils, waiting like a platoon of parasites approaching the invasion of a human circulatory system or the blinding light of a sun billions of miles away thrown against the closed drapes of a hidden soul and traumatized by the darkness within, ready to vengefully pass into the intrepid generation of the dimension of my body. I called this the intake.

With my face turning blue the middle portion of my body felt heavy, like a rock peacefully dwelt in my stomach, shutting the barrier to the access of openings that sustained the life within, and outside of me. Holding my breath the rock seemed to sleep but became alive in me; and turning blue the pain stemmed from the weight my stomach really and truly lacked. There was no rock inside my stomach, yet I turned blue, and I value these moments. One time, almost passing out I fell, the weight of air cruising to caress my body didn't have the power and strength to support the falling gravity I was, so I hit the floor seconds into the future. Almost in midair, feeling the rock that never existed--the fantasy object of my body--the air that was now turned to wind summoned by the speed of my excruciated falling body of inertia navigated the windy paths of the hair my scalp still grows.

The floor smashing my body with it's stamina of hardness (I call that pain) shoots the release of compacted oxygen out my mouth while the air held out doesn't retreat in, but gets sucked by my desperately pounding heart and excessively pumping blood, and my body retrieves...