Five Sentence Feelings

Anger:

You can feel the blood rushing through your veins and your heart beating faster and faster, and louder and louder until those simple heart beats become the only noise you can hear, drumming against your ears until you cannot believe that you are the only one who can hear it. Your breathing quickens and reality begins to warp as less and less oxygen reaches your brain. As your mind tries to sort through its multiple thoughts of profanities and obscene comments, your body starts vibrating and you try to hold back the urge to scream out at the world all of your frustrations. Sadly, your mind wins the battle and all thoughts pour out of your mouth at incredible volumes; scrambled and uncensored. It isn’t until your body has cleansed itself of the tension that rationality sets back in and regret floods your thoughts, refilling the empty void where anger had just lurked moments earlier.

Fear:

A stifled cry catches in your throat, threatening to choke you as you stand in shock. A pulse of adrenaline shoots through you veins and you release a breath you were not aware you were holding until now. As if in an instant your muscles respond to the adrenaline that now vibrates under your skin and you find yourself running faster than you ever thought capable of your body, occasionally glancing back to watch the horror that startled you. Your heart races under the tension and the excitement and it is not until the adrenaline drains from your system that you find yourself bent over, gagging, while your body trembles furiously.

Passion:

The feeling begins in your chest like a million little starbursts exploding over and over, causing you to become giddy and giggly, and a large smile cannot help but spread across your face where it would not even cease to exist should your cheeks become mountains of pain. It is a feeling of such intense happiness that it feels like the Sun itself has created a new home inside your beating heart, illuminating you brilliantly from the inside and spreading a welcoming warmth throughout your veins. Thoughts of your passion invade every idea; everything in the world reminds you of this thing you love. Even within the depths of your dreams it is there, lurking and thriving, reminding you that it is yours and you are its.

Pain:

As tears brim your eyes and cause the world around you to smudge and swirl, you choke back a sob that threatens to breach your lips. Your chest feels as though it is compressing and folding in on itself and breathing becomes harder and harder as you try to fight against your quivering lips to maintain the smiling face you held before. Through your tears you can see the sympathetic faces of the people around you and it immediately becomes impossible to hold back your feelings. Tears roll down your face, one after another, until there is no more water left to release and your eyes are left to burn in a pain lesser than your broken heart.

Bleeding Rainbow

The metallic smell permeated throughout her studio as she dipped her paintbrush into one of the many shades of red that currently decorated her palette. It was a deep and rich red that could cause one to think of the freshest red rose petals. She smeared the colour into a rough arch above the neater and more professional arches of colour that were painted upon the blank, white canvas the night previous. The red liquid oozed over the other colours of her skilfully realistic rainbow, creating the gothic look that she was renowned for. As she watched the red bleed across the fabric, embedding itself in the crevices and orifices of the weaving, she devised the name for her newest creation. She named it “The Bleeding Rainbow.” It was not a creative name, at least, not to anyone else. However, all her paintings were inspired by a person she knew. This painting in particular was inspired by Leslie Powell, a very flamboyantly homosexual man she met at a gay pride parade. As a fairly well-known and local artist, she was called upon to create the signs and banners that the homosexuals would carry in the parade.

As she handed Leslie one of her many signs, he took her hand and slipped in a piece of folded paper. He claimed that a greater being was telling him that she and him were destined to be friends. With a sly smile, the artist accepted the piece of paper and found Leslie’s cell phone number, Facebook URL, MySpace URL, and Twitter alias written in curly, feminine letters. Upon returning to the abandoned warehouse she called home and work, the artist drew up each of the websites and added or followed each of Leslie’s social networking accounts. They conversed almost entirely over Facebook for the next few weeks and she began to learn more and more about Leslie’s past. He was disowned by his strictly Christian parents at a young age because of his sexual orientation. He had no boyfriends, no job, and rarely attended the university he was enrolled in. As far as the artist could tell, Leslie’s life was purposeless. He lived just because he could; surfing couches and helping plan gay pride events. She felt sorry for the poor and homeless gay man. In fact, she pitied his very existence. This pity lead the artist to invite Leslie over to her house for a cup of coffee and some cake. She greeted Leslie at the door with a hug and brought him to her studio where the chocolate cake and two cups of steaming coffee were situated on a small mosaic table. 

As the artist began to cut the cake, she paused and looked up at her guest. Smiling, she asked Leslie if he would like to see her newest piece of art. He enthusiastically agreed and followed her to a drying painting. The painting was that of a brilliant rainbow, however, the red arch that should have capped the rainbow was missing. Just as Leslie turned to ask the artist about the missing colour, he felt the quick sensation of sharp metal piercing through his skin and down his arm then a heavenly rush of pleasure scrambled to overcome the pain of the wound. Before realizing what had happened, Leslie’s other arm was slashed and more endorphins were released, sending him into a deeper state of hormonal bliss. As his body collapsed to the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, spots of his vision began to fade, black overcame the colours of the world around him as he sunk deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. The artist worked quickly as Leslie’s precious blood drained from his veins and pooled on the concrete floor. From behind the rainbow canvas she pulled out two red plastic bowls and slung Leslie’s arms into them. Though it was a hard job, the artist managed to pull the gay man’s corpse into a deck chair where she was able to drain even more of his blood into the bowls. 

Leslie was one of the many “friends” who helped the artist become famous. Among others were Dallas the gentleman’s club dancer, Simon the paranoid drug dealer, and Winston the unsuccessful businessman who had lost his family in a house fire. As payment for helping these poor, unfulfilled people restart their lives the artist would take their blood for her paintings and no one was any the wiser of her murders. The next afternoon, the artist carried her finished painting to the art gallery where she sold it for $2,000. Finally, within the last moments of his life, Leslie gained purpose in the world. Though not remembered by most, Leslie would always be known to the artist as “The Bleeding Rainbow.”

Dreaming of a Nightmare

The sky of pale blue sweeps over my world, effortlessly viewed around the few white wisps of cloud that lazily lounge about. The brilliance of the Sun as it heats the earth beneath my body as well as the features of my face. Every freckle, hair, imperfection. Its fingers make their way through my skin to my soul and further warm me from the inside. A joyous feeling follows in the path of the warmth and causes a contented smile to spread across my face.
I can feel the uneven terrain stretch before me. Warm, soft, long grass. Cold, damp, dark dirt. I lay down upon the ground, allowing the earth to swallow me whole and absorb my soul into its own. True unfaltering peace filters through my body, allowing it to forget its stress, its troubles and just exist as the beautiful miracle it was meant to be.  There only exists the natural sounds of a light breeze dancing in the tress, birds tweeting in happiness as they, too, feel the peace of the earth, and the distant chirping of playful crickets in the grass. The smell of summer hovered over me, filling my mind with dreams of carefree times.
But these dreams never really do last. Eventually the world comes crashing down on you, suffocating and choking the last breath from your lungs until you collapse under the pressure; broken, confused, yet tossed away so easily by others. Then our dreams become distant memories. Shadows of memories. And we wait. Wait for our end or wait for our dreams to re-establish themselves into something new and something better. Then the cycle repeats.