Anticipation of Reality

So cramped ... Strain to move, Flex and budge in tiny increments ... That's the limit. Constantly testing, trying, Pushing, pressing ... Constrict, exert, constrict, struggle, Spin slowly, push ... That's it. That's all. Nothing more. But it helps ... relief, A body sigh ... But only a modicum. So dark, But hints of light ... Here and there, and to the left. Move toward it ... try ... It beckons like a beacon ... I want it, need it somehow ... Terribly, desperately. To hope? Freedom? To more? There is promise there, Of what, I know not, But it compels so strongly. Wonderful, that prospect, Though acumen eludes. Pain when I roll ... Not unpleasant, that, The answer to my questioning muscles And tendons and bones. Grateful. Thankful. The thirst for movement sated For now, but it lasts not. Never. Unfailing. Unvarying. Pressure everywhere, holding, Tightly, like a hand grasp, Move again, strain, push! Feet, legs, shoulders, head, hands ... All-encompassing PUSH! Briefly yielding, It pushes back ... The squeezing hand, a ball vise, Moving as much as possible, But it's barely a smidgeon. I'm safe, I know somehow. And I'm warm ... ever warm. Just enough. And full ... My belly longs for naught, Contentment there, at my mid ... A flow ... a rushing ... the sea there, In and out as the tide ... Warm and full, abounding. There's even MORE there ... A significant thread of ... Something ... a connection, A sense inexplicable, indubitable ... As if it's me and not me at once, A joining to myself, replete, An equanimity inexplicable, But true, lasting, abiding, pure. And WARM ... always warmth, serenity. Contrary to the ever-present encumbrance, An offset, countervailing the fatigue in my bones. So welcome and satisfying ... Familiar and intimate and close. Eternity here, or it seems such ... The press, the squeeze, the warmth, The complacency and connection and plenitude. And music! Oh, yes ... And so sweet, this sound ... As soft and close and encompassing As the warmth and the press. But no clarity, just an impression ... Rhythm and pulse and movement, Vibration and varying tones, soft. The small space around me, holding me, Fluid and warm, trembles ... Pulsates and shivers and trembles. I feel it everywhere around me, It reaches into my lungs with fingers resonate, Stirs my soul and thrums my very frame, Becomes my very being and the tempo Of my pumping heart ... and the other ... It composes a symphony belletristic ... The euphonious definition of "I am", The very essence of that connection undefined. The Other. The Greater. The Source. The Joining. At once endogenous and auxiliary ... The elusive connection undefined. This pulsing flow is what I am ... It drives me to more, to ... what? So long, I'm here ... Suspended, floating, warm, held, Encompassed by the clutch of ... I know not ...security? A world my own? Movement, more than the slow spin That has defined my world for so long. This is new ... welcomed, but tight ... That seeming hand grasp SO tight! The top of my head and face, in a vice ... PULLING me in, in, in, squeezing ... So strong ... my muscles are thankful, They are stretched as they've longed to be, And I can kick freely from my hips. Pushing my feet down, they are loose, Wiggling my toes in the warm, fluid space there, Kicking my legs, they are loose at the knees. But the vice now holds my shoulders, too, And slowly it grips me tight, and tight again, Swallowing me slowly in it's hold, head-first. Rolling it's grasp down my length, Now my chest ... and waist ... and hips ... SOOOOOOO tightly, unforgiving and complete, Almost painful now as it swallows me, the press. It stretches my muscles and cartilage and bones. I longed for this relief, but now it's too much! The clutch is too tight! The press is everywhere! The vice slowly swallows my entire being, Squeezes my body and pulls me apart While it embraces me with it's crushing grip. I can not kick anymore or move at the knees. I can move my toes slightly, but my ankles are held. My arms at my side are gripped and crunched, Even my hands are pressed so intensely they tingle. The clasp of the vice is too strong, I try to struggle, But the restraint is crushing, numbing, It feels as if the very blood is being Squeezed from my veins and pushed downward. I hurt from head-to-foot, the hold excruciating, My mind and body scream for freedom from restraint. But it continues, and worsens, and tightens more! And now a coldness at the top of my head ... Is it dying? The lifeblood being squeezed from it? Is this the Other? The Greater? The Source? I have never felt as I do now ... I am afraid. I hurt so from the tightness ... the binding. But this cold on my head ... I am terrified. All has been warm, only warm, always warm. This is so different, so contrary. And it is spreading downward as the grip dip, Slowly spreading down over my crown, Ever so slowly .. my forehead now ... And the pulsing music in my ears is changing. There is a new music, not rhythmic at all, But sharp and irregular, highs and lows, Loud at one moment, soft the next ... Long and high, then low and soft. It mixes with the rush in my body, The regular thrump, tha-thrump, thrump, Is mingled with a chaotic, irregular noise. It is foreign, unwelcome, and now LOUD! But that loud noise is from a source I know. It hurts with it's din and resonance, But I KNOW it's song, and I am not afraid. It is pain that it carries, and pain in my ears, But it beckons me with it's familiarity ... how?? (continued)