Nature Morte

There is something stifling about the summer heat during the last few days of August, as
nature treats herself to the last days of a dionysian self-celebration of her own power, before reclining in a long-suffering agony. As the day comes to an end, before the serene stillness of the evening, all sounds and smells break loose. The sun releases waves of heat upon those beneath him, objects, vegetables, and animals, all breathing things, animate and inanimate. Our smell, rising towards the sky, struggles against the heat of the declining sun weighing down on us. After feeding us into life, there he goes, accelerating our shameful decay.

Stuck inside my own body, bound into imposed stillness, I perceive the languid tumult around me. Children and cicadas singing and shrieking in disharmony; plates hammering on the kitchen table; the gentle crackle of juicy meats upon the grill; and those bodies walking back and forth, burdened by the unforgiving humidity of the heat.
It will soon be time for them to gather up for dinner.

Heavens, it is warm in here! The water boiling on the hobs leaves tiny drops on the sticky sap sweating through my pores; humidity is now my worst enemy. I am not so young anymore, and the brown freckles spread all across my decaying body only forecast the worst. I can feel a patch of brownish skin threatening to fall off my back. Not so long ago, my neck and ankles were graced with bright green jewels, and my firm yellow skin voluptuously slipped beneath the fingers of those thousands of hands picking and weighing me up, only to put me down to fiddle in noisy packs of tin foil smelling of grease, salt and potato. Then, the first freckle appeared, and another one; and a shameful wrinkle, and a thousand; and here I am. Still. Stifled, choking under the weight of my own skin, of my own body. There is someone in here. Little do they know.

The end of the day always brings the hope of rebirth. As they all shuffle around in the kitchen,every single pore of my body expands and releases the most delicate scent. I can feel them walking around in circle, looking for something to feed on. A few days away from complete decay, I still crave for consumption. Like a phoenix, I would rise from the ashes of my putrid skin, and slowly bare my flesh off its envelope. Thousands of hands will free me from this deadly apathy and I shall blaze in a warm explosion of senses.

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