No Airbag, We Die Like Men

Something like a needle scraping the flesh that coats the inside of my skull. Etching, scratching, attempting to free itself from the confines. If I knew the way out I would tell it how, but I’ve been looking for that answer myself. Somewhere along the way I misplaced the directions, or perhaps they were never right to begin with.

If only there was a way to let it all be free, to open myself like a cookie jar, emptying out the rotten contents for the birds to peck away at in their hunger. If I could guess I would say that even the birds would refuse it. Poison of the mind cannot purify itself through expulsion, only by sorting through the muck with a fine-tooth comb. Only in total scrutiny can there be a change of pace, a change of scenery from the inside out.

The scratching and the pleading tells me to get up and run, to not stop until the pain that has followed me like a phantom takes over my adrenaline. But someone told me I should stop and scream at the passing trains, if only to provide a soundtrack to the agony. If only to let it live outside of me, somewhere viable. Grinding cogs and rusted gears blending with the outburst of all I’ve put away. Shoved deeper and deeper, forced compression and confinement, compartmentalized into one solid mass. A blood diamond of baggage, my most valued asset. It lives within me somewhere, in a place so well hidden that even its host is unbeknown. An impressive gemstone, albeit ugly. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder then I do not wish for anyone to witness it, for they will not be able to find any. I wouldn’t want them to think it their fault for not being able to see through something opaque.

Light-headed in a sea of moralists, swept up by a mass hysteria for the sake of nothing truly meaningful. Going through the motions as if I were the one with the rusted cogs, looking out to see another mourner screaming at me.