An Entirely Different Type of Cannibal
I eat the world. I consume and inspire and absorb. The thirst is no better, sucking in all that will unwillingly flow through my lips. It does not bother me. I am constantly hungry, and so why bother denying that desire, that peremptory driving force? I am relaxed in this way of life, quite suited to it, although my body is always tensed and coiled as I follow after the next piece of prey. The only downside to this world is that my meals are always moving. Targets and aims, the stalker and the watched, the criminal versus the cop. Ambition is a beautiful thing, is it not? Obese and crushing, it has clambered to the top of the heap of undernourished people, the ones who did not take feeding themselves seriously and so latterly became starved of all opportunity. I have fed myself reasonably up until now. There was a time, a brief few years of doubt where the sheer mass of all that I had consumed played upon my mind, and my skin felt unbearably stretched - but I have since come to appreciate the hunger again, to stop trying to fight that which my blood believes to be right, even if my heart is straining at the thought, and to carry on eating. I can feel my weight starting to settle, starting to get too comfortable at this particular resting point on the mountain, although the view from here really is quite spectacular, and so I give a sigh and hoist myself up again, placing one foot before the other as I continue the trudge, my mind soaring ahead of me to that most glorious peak, the one which seems unreachable. I’ll get there. I’m bound to get there eventually. Even though it kills me.