Knowing myself, my ego and id are hiding in a junk drawer somewhere. I laugh and then it echos, bouncing off all walls and corridors until it’s laughing right back at me. “Scoot forward, lean back, deep breathe, sycamore tree,” I’m a fear goblin. See, when I was a child the door always opened to a thick and wild rain forest. I didn’t know to look anywhere else other than into myself. I was a fun-house of mirrors. I am still now only looking inward, but the chest that stores the soul is polluted. The gunk from the if’s and the maybe’s and the how’s stick like sludge on a cellar wall. I’m a bottle rocket whose lost its fuse. The conductor with a deep inhale, hands float up, but the downbeat never comes. Life feels prickly like a cactus sometimes and heavy like an unbreakable water balloon, those big ones that were always too expensive. I would like you to believe in me. Believe that I can hold something other than the weight of my own fear. I am a love artifact, buried in the pit of the stomach for ages, fossilized as a small heart-shaped teardrop stone. Fuck man, does it get easier or was it always this hard and I was just too distracted to realize? The earth fed me, leaving manna in front of the mouth before every step like a biblical Pac-Man. I want to squeeze every moment of existence, wring it out, juice it with pulp and all. But I also want to hide, to duck and cover, to not see myself, to unsee myself. It’s a delicate balance between everything and nothing, there is no demilitarized zone, just an imaginary border on an imaginary map in an all too real heart.
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