The air is thick and heavy –
dense. Very dense.
Wading through it,
we’re trying to find
what we lost in the
mist, but we “can’t
see.” Not anymore.

Air so thick a butter knife
wouldn’t cut through.
We can’t move now;
I can’t breathe. It
fills my lungs to the
very brim, threatening
to overflow. But, the
question is: where
will it go? Where
will it overflow to?
It can’t. It will get
denser – is that a
word? It will cram
itself into the tiny
organs that are
reserved inside the
body for a certain
guest – air. This air
did not make any
reservations so
there is really
“nowhere to
accommodate” it
all. What then?

The lungs – my lungs –
will burst due to
the pressure and
all the stress and
strain and force
they had to endure
throughout this
endeavour. Little
blue balloons burst.
If we can trust what
they say, we can
assume I won’t “make it”
and they’ll break it
to you smoothly, I
hope. No worries.

Maybe the air will course
through the rest
of my body, thus
rupturing each
organ in its path;
eventually it will
reach my brain
and cause more
damage than is
already there.
Won’t that be a
“kick in the teeth”?

My brain will be compressed
“beyond repair.”
What will be left
of me once the
air has finished
the suffocation
process, which it
naturally exceeds at?

Nothing.

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