Breathing

The man focused his attention on his breathing. Hushing all the competing claims down to a single, soft focus of attention, he felt everything to the deepest measure. He noted the smoothness and small irregularities of this intake of breath. Cool, soft, through his left nostril more than his right it swished up into his head and down through his throat. He allowed it to expand his chest, fill down into his belly, and then, moments before it became too tight, shifted into an exhalation. He felt how the air flowed out of him, he found vague interest in how his body wished to collapse like a silly string doll (but he musn't think of outside things, now,) as the pressure flowed out of him. He was conscious of how the muscles were called into action to support his sagging frame, now that the air, let out, did not prop him up. He steadied his posture, and noted how quickly he was coming to the bottom of his air reservoir. Much more and he would be forced to begin to contract his stomach and chest to force even the last bit out. When he was much younger he used to do that often, enjoying how hard his stomach would press, how concave the sense of his chest as he expelled every molecule of air from his lungs, and felt the rising tightness in his head. But that was bad practice, he knew it then, the older monks had told him so, and now that he was much older, he understood the purposes of the practice, and he was much more serious about the form of his breathing, though every now and then he would still do it, just to feel the muscles in his stomach so hard again. He heard a rustle, he knew the man beside him had slightly changed position, yet not a single judgement regarding this crossed his mind. The last air had slipped past his open lips, and he shifted his diaphragm to begin inhalation. That was one.

The man focused his attention on his breathing. All the scratchiness of the grass against his belly, the heat of the sun against his back and exposed neck, the trickle of sweat that ran down along his arm tickling terribly till it pooled at his crooked elbow and wetted his jacket, all of it faded out to a dull, meaningless background color, like singular faces, each a universe unto themselves, fade into an indistinct mass when in a crowd. This feeling of concentration was familiar enough to be loved, and infrequent enough to still be novel. The feeling of watching his world lose focus and slip until one single desire remained in his whole being, so strong, so clear, that the immutable physical world would rearrange itself to be in accordance with his desire. To others it might be a simple playing out of the laws of physics, but to him it was a miracle every time it happened, brought about by the force of his will. He let his breath go and locked his neck muscles into place, his head now as immobile as stone. Every cramp, every itch, now gone from his consciousness, he was to the universe a simple prayer, a single unified desire. The feeling wasn't right yet, because the moment had not yet come. He gently pulled in his next breath, as smooth as the water he had ached for, it pulled past his parted lips, through his immobile teeth, and down the neck, locked into place, immovable. He could feel the rivulets of air fill his lungs, and his eyes told his lungs that all things knew the moment was approaching. He reversed, and let the weight of his body push down into the earth, expelling the now warm air past his teeth. A beautiful harmony was now in place as his breath moved the the man in his one eye stood turned stepped, the last of the air had seeped from him and he was immobile, perfectly still and nothing existed but this moment of perfection, as he softly pulled on the trigger.

The man focused his attention on his breathing. Everything else raged within him, roaring in his ears, in his mind, everything was on him and nothing could be controlled. The rushing noise-was that outside, here, on the lawn, or inside, his head? His breaths were gasping, short, jerky, and every single one of them sent a shot of pain across his chest and down the insides of both arms. Holy Mother of God, it hurts, he thought. This is no time for blasphemy, he thought. Maybe it was a prayer, he thought, Yes, let it be a prayer, he thought. No time like the present. No time like the present. His breathing had slowed slightly, a momentary pardon from the pain, then a breath, and the electric jolt of muscle gone mad slapped him like a hot wire across his chest and arms again. MOTHER OF GOD, he thought. THAT IS A PRAYER he thought. Where was DIANNE? She had told him BE RIGHT BACK. She had been gone HOW LONG? No way to tell, no way to know, from here to hospital to hell we go. MOTHER OF GOD, it hurts. MOTHER OF GOD, save me. He thought of his children, as his head rolled saw them simultaneously, here on the lawn, there on the driveway on their bikes, there, in the front door, insouciant bracelets too much across their arms, ink across their jeans, their many silent friends in tow, and again at work, no doubt now, working in office, cuffs rolled up just as his were, now, MOTHER OF GOD, be merciful as the pain hit again, but didn't quite finish, it was getting better, it was getting less, it would pass. His head arched back slightly, saw Dianne, upside-wrong come through the door, bigger than when I married her he thought, upside down makes a difference, and the pain was better now and he wanted to tell her so but the muscles in his neck didn't respond but the pain was gone now, and better.