Nirvana is a Scary Place

He was lying there unobserved. 

He was hoping someone would witness his accent into nirvana, but not a soul understood what was going on. 

His left arm twitched, a tick started at his wrist, hand lay limp, slowly traveled to his elbow, overextended as to give the imagery of Christ on a cross, his biceps bulged, not unlike an explanation in a dirty romance novel, his shoulders tensed as though intimate human touch were foreign to them. It was as though he was having a heart attack, but his ever growing smile gave out the impression of something confounding to those that surrounded him.

His body was of a mental break down, his mind of a cancerous liver, his soul as if body and mind never existed.

And though those around him were yearning for an escape, or a call for help, or of bath salts to calm the nerves, all they could do was observe. All they could do was lead their gaze from the wrist, ignoring the hand, up passed the elbow and biceps, never a glance at the shoulders, which were always inviting, always allowing for ones head to rest on, and rest upon his smile.

Nirvana is a scary place to those in observance.