The Odour of a Nebula (working title)

The lump. Deep inside my chest, in the middle of my body, at the top of my stomach.

The lump that will eat me from inside if I cannot use its enormous energy. It’s crawling around in my body like a sparkling fountain of thin air and some feeling… Like love. Of hatred, anger and joy at the same time.

It wants to lift my body, lead me up to where the sky never ends to the thousands of bright and shining stars.

But gravity. Gravity holds me down. Won’t let the lump lift me, and my arms, my arms are heavy like cement. They’re hanging down towards earth, and don’t know where to do with themselves. Like they’re longing for the depths of earth. Like if they want to drag themselves deep down inside earth, to the glowing, hot ball of bubbling lava and deadly flames.

But they stay where they are. They have so many choices, so much to make out of themselves. They don’t know how to function.
The lump rumple. The lump grows. Almost blows up inside of me.  Only through my ears, through my eyes, does my body let the lump be and live. Through the strength of others. Through tones the lump wants to dance to. Through visual sights the lump is made of.

Or through sharing. Like ripping out a part of my body, in exchanged of a tearing wound. An emptiness, not to be seen by anyone, and as if not to be filled again.

A moment of acrid longing, of prodigious solitude. A moment of dreams never to be released. A life whom never to be lived.
How to let the lump free, to float with the wind. How to let it lift me from the ground when my body holds me down. All the words to speak, all the tones to sing, all the stories to be told, all the adventures to begin.

The lump muds like cosmic gas from a birth of a star, as cloud of dust from a nebula. Ready to blow up anytime, expand it selves and finally collapse into a burning light, forever to glow out the deadly brightness, and eat all darkness on its road.

But gravity still is bigger. 

- Cecilie