It’s like holding the handle of the spoon that’s stirring the pot of boiling water which contains none other than yourself. You convince yourself it’s okay. It’s just the usual dinner, nothing out of the ordinary. But as you watch yourself crying out as you’re boiled alive, you become depressed. You turn away yet continue to stir, believing it’s the right way. Everything will be better after you eat.
Oh, El it hurts! You’re being boiled alive. Your first reaction is fear, complete and total fear. You feel your flesh bubble as a familiar smell wafts across the room. You look up to see none other than yourself slowly stirring the pot. You see two distinct looks on your face, one of disgust and one of hunger. You try to yell out something, “A circle! You’re stuck in a circle!”, but you can’t hear yourself and it wouldn’t matter anyway. You were prepared especially to become tonight’s meal. You will be eaten and you will be forgotten.
What about tomorrow? Won’t you just be hungry again tomorrow?
For in a world that is hungry the people will go mad, but how mad must they go? Surely there will be some who accept the situations handed to them and adapt as necessary. Take Barbel von Gruber, receptionist for an Austrian manicurist, for example. She ate her fingers, one at a time, over a period of ten days. As she defecated each night, she collected her stool and formed the droppings into ten crude feces fingers, connecting them to the bloodied stumps on her hands with a combination of 3M and Elmer’s.
Barbel was careful to moisten her new turd digits with spittle every hour or so in order to keep them flexible, limber, and usable. She moved to Hungary and went on to become a famous pianist, playing weekly with the Budapest Symphony Orchestra. Although she was quite beautiful, no man ever proposed; for who in good hygienic conscience could take her hand in marriage?
When hunger strikes, it locks onto you with state-of-the-art computer guided accuracy backed by a targeting system the Department Of Defense wet dreams about, awakening to an imaginary enemy obliterated and a bed full of sticky relief. Even the wasted sperm is in awe. “With that kind of determination, we’d all be multicellular organisms in no time,” they squeak, as the fibers of the blanket they have been deposited on slowly absorb their viscous armor, and the oxygen around them partically and ironically sucks the life out of them.
Madness from hunger makes you dizzy. You forget who you are, who you’re trying to be/become. You no longer care about the world around you, only the world inside you screaming out in terror with a bloodlust for fuel, for energy. When your stomach sings, it’s a choir that drowns out all small talk. You have no choice but to acknowledge the spectacle. It’s the dying call of a swan not fed. Your swan. You are the swan.