Raw


Some days I walked, and nights too, so long that my own legs would ache, feet rubbed raw. A testament, perhaps, to the reluctance I had at returning to my room, foul as it was in the stench of sweaty vile dejection. I would, eventually, have to return, where I would peel off my drenched socks that were flooding my shoes with sweat, only to look at the red blistering feet inside them, and lord knows not what I was to do, but to rise again the next morning and walk all the more. You could say that my feet were rubbed raw even more than my privates, which were raw still from the sometimes endless rubbing that I truly exerted, trying to conjure up embers from a fire that was almost extinguished from a torrent of rain that had descended in the black woods, and left everything drenched in its wake— impossible but not quite, if only we persist, and I did persist.

I talk in the past because I used to rub, all the more, and I have been rubbed still, by lurking bodies atop beds, rubbing privates and arseholes still, but whether privates include arsehole in categorisation, I’m not sure. And the part in between is what, exactly? I ask not but feel a rub there too. I used to rub, but as nights and days tumbled towards each other, converging as my flesh reeked, it was somehow harder— in the sense of difficult. And the other, I suppose.  I’d wake in mornings to a dampened crotch, slimy, a sign surely, an invitation of the self to the self, to rub once again. Yet I’d become tired of it, of the sameness of my flesh, the feel, smell, taste— I was sick of it, all in all. Or I was sick of me.

Yet if one body part tires, another can take its place, and so I allowed my feet to go as they may, walking to become what they now are, aching and bloody all in time, so as to avoid being there for longer than absolutely necessary, which was only to sleep and eat and make turd all the more, but not rub. I had not that capacity any longer. Anything, though, to avoid the sound of shuffling steps outside my door, or squelching shits too close to my ear, countless times of waking to that in the night, worse than the sound of my own repulsive doings under my blanket. I’d managed to pack it in, slowly slowly. If I could scuttle about the place, from my tepid room to another, perhaps for necessities of coffee and bits of bread, or smulk out of the house without seeing any other body, then with all the effort capable to muster I would. I’d hover at my door, seeing shadows underneath the frame, looming as they did before entering the bathroom, where those bodies unleashed their buttocks and pushed out the vileness that is in us all.

In all my raw self it was hard not to scramble through corridors clinging to the wall, lurching as I did with suppressed sounds, a gasp at the bursting blisters which, I’m sure you’re thinking, were my own fault and all. Oozing like the rest of me. But don’t we all inflict our own agonies upon ourselves, doing all those things we are aware of, yet do all the more, since too much drinking is rarely an accident, as is not enough. Too much thinking, that is also a fault we do consciously, as well as thinking not enough, and too much farting also, yet take pleasure we do. I relish in it often, in excess, which sometimes feels the same as the opposite— to relish and abhor they surely are. Or maybe I’m yet to find the difference. I did too much, too much panicked striding to nowhere, which was the only place I knew, apart from back, which is where I always ended up. Away to nowhere, out there, and then to back, in here, was where I flitted, and will continue to flit, both of them reeking like me, since I exist in both, until I inevitably return to the other rubbing which will keep me occupied for sometime, and then I will leave that and go out, once again.