In the beginning the lungs began to hyperventilate before the call was made. Before the joints even flexed, muscles seized and lactic acid pooled spontaneously into the blood stream. Shoulders stretched taut, and the worry vein clawed into the perspiring skin, all before the gun was shot. Capillaries began to drool blood like a baby being burped, and the intestines still rose and fell, like a car jerking round a motorway swerve.
The pain mounted an attack during the peace period, dreams turned into simulators defiantly blurring the lines in their increasing verisimilitude.
That was in the beginning.
As the elephant sidles over to the bore hole, each year glancing at its wrinkled reflection, counting and re-counting the ravine like grooves etched into it’s tough skin; the tusks that protrude from closed lips inch forward, desperate for a drink. It is a slow period of growth, fermentation, the temperatures just right, not to be overripe or rotten, but comfortably wedged between the bottom and the top, a sandwich of perfect measurements.
And in the slow growth of time, when memory is still difficult to distil from the present, one notices –
The lungs barely had to inflate after the call was made.