Her ever-impeccable lingual buds are tortured with the repetitive taste of monosodium glutamate in its various, hideous forms. The instant noodles. The canned fish. The foil-wrapped junks. It's actually frustrating, how those amazing and intricate essential nutrients are being denied from her physical systems. Ironically, pound by pound, she's still being nourished.
And of nourishments, her cardiac activity seems to be functional. Pulses are regular. Beats per minute are normal. No signs of dysryhthmia. No symptoms of cardiomegaly.
Until this very second.
She unhesitatingly deletes 949 messages in her inbox. In the background, metals clutter from a film that has been playing since 3 in the afternoon. Her inner erotomania is here; it plunges her into a deep emotional coma. Silence is never fucking golden. It only inhibits rationality. It denatures gaiety. It derails her insanity.
769 messages has been deleted.
She feels her own skin slither with wrath. She abhors herself; the paranoia - or even remotely worse - is killing their mutual insides. Part-time lovers should never perceive these sorts of translucent insensitivity, she scolds herself. She never wants to go back to her ultra-lame old self. If only she could spin back the hour before this relentless argument. Then, all will be well.
She cringes. And then deletes 918 messages in her sent folder. Still, the irrationalities uttered cannot be undone. Not now, bitch. He says that silence is golden. She would never understand. All she requires is a heartfelt lullaby from his number one gun. She's sorry; he's sorry. Everybody will fucking be sorry. But he wouldn't listen. And she wouldn't falter.
Only a week of unseen faces, almost a decade of unheard vows.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
1 comments
Anonymous
said...
November 20, 2011 at 10:15 PM
Silence is always golden. You think and speak quietly.
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Of Omentums and Aortaes
Her ever-impeccable lingual buds are tortured with the repetitive taste of monosodium glutamate in its various, hideous forms. The instant noodles. The canned fish. The foil-wrapped junks. It's actually frustrating, how those amazing and intricate essential nutrients are being denied from her physical systems. Ironically, pound by pound, she's still being nourished.
And of nourishments, her cardiac activity seems to be functional. Pulses are regular. Beats per minute are normal. No signs of dysryhthmia. No symptoms of cardiomegaly.
Until this very second.
She unhesitatingly deletes 949 messages in her inbox. In the background, metals clutter from a film that has been playing since 3 in the afternoon. Her inner erotomania is here; it plunges her into a deep emotional coma. Silence is never fucking golden. It only inhibits rationality. It denatures gaiety. It derails her insanity.
769 messages has been deleted.
She feels her own skin slither with wrath. She abhors herself; the paranoia - or even remotely worse - is killing their mutual insides. Part-time lovers should never perceive these sorts of translucent insensitivity, she scolds herself. She never wants to go back to her ultra-lame old self. If only she could spin back the hour before this relentless argument. Then, all will be well.
She cringes. And then deletes 918 messages in her sent folder. Still, the irrationalities uttered cannot be undone. Not now, bitch. He says that silence is golden. She would never understand. All she requires is a heartfelt lullaby from his number one gun. She's sorry; he's sorry. Everybody will fucking be sorry. But he wouldn't listen. And she wouldn't falter.
Only a week of unseen faces, almost a decade of unheard vows.
And of nourishments, her cardiac activity seems to be functional. Pulses are regular. Beats per minute are normal. No signs of dysryhthmia. No symptoms of cardiomegaly.
Until this very second.
She unhesitatingly deletes 949 messages in her inbox. In the background, metals clutter from a film that has been playing since 3 in the afternoon. Her inner erotomania is here; it plunges her into a deep emotional coma. Silence is never fucking golden. It only inhibits rationality. It denatures gaiety. It derails her insanity.
769 messages has been deleted.
She feels her own skin slither with wrath. She abhors herself; the paranoia - or even remotely worse - is killing their mutual insides. Part-time lovers should never perceive these sorts of translucent insensitivity, she scolds herself. She never wants to go back to her ultra-lame old self. If only she could spin back the hour before this relentless argument. Then, all will be well.
She cringes. And then deletes 918 messages in her sent folder. Still, the irrationalities uttered cannot be undone. Not now, bitch. He says that silence is golden. She would never understand. All she requires is a heartfelt lullaby from his number one gun. She's sorry; he's sorry. Everybody will fucking be sorry. But he wouldn't listen. And she wouldn't falter.
Only a week of unseen faces, almost a decade of unheard vows.
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Born in the mid-80s, Erin Herøin is a marveller of non-sequitur writing, cinematic films, & analogue photography.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Silence is always golden. You think and speak quietly.
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