Worrytrain

I'm listening to sheets of rain and wind hammer on my french doors. I don't want to listen to music. Or maybe I should to drown out the world. Drown out the thoughts and the rain.

Worrytrain drills screws of agony into my mind. My stomach turns, bile rises, burning me from the inside out, drenching my soul in acid.

My ears want to bleed, my head throbs like a festering wound, but the dissonance is somehow soothing. The torment is pleasure.

Last time I applied Worrytrain to my pain, I was ripped apart. I seem to have hardened, toughened, learned to manage the music. I need this.

I need the pain. I need it to feel alive, to burn and scream with every cell of my being. I need the ecstatic agony to lift me up out of myself, to see things clearer.

I want to surround myself in it, to feel it course through me, making my heart pulse with its beat.

I want it to play me, make me vibrate with emotion like a violin string pulled tight and plucked until it unravels and eventually breaks.

I let the music's frenzied climax explode in me. Breathless. Fulfilled, yet empty. Closer to god through sacrilege and sin. I feel wrong. And good.















Like murder in a church or the rape of a nun, I draw a euphoric joy from it. The music feels wrong, and would probable make me hemorrhage if played loudly enough.

But the pain brings release and quiet with it. Mind-numbing pain, a paralyzing poison - the final escape for those desperate enough to seek it.

The wave has broken over me and retreats. My stomach settles, the hair on my arms lowers, and the electric current pulling my body taunt fades away.

As the dust settles and the music ends, I am left alone, breathing hard, sweat-drenched, and oddly satiated.