A Question Seared on The Inside of My Skull
Words toil to make their way out of one’s throat. It couldn’t get further from exaggeration that everyone is metamorphosed forever. A plethora of images made up of ones and zeros, race through a series of electromagnetic waves, flooding every network, spears into one’s eyes, demanding to sear the inside of one’s skull with letters that make up a question. At night, one walks in circles and alternates piercing each heel in the ground. One’s knuckles into concrete. One’s lungs into pillows. One is baffled, but the baffling is furthered by waking up in the morning and stepping out into a sphere where legs have to carry oneself, lips have to flatten, and brows have to relax. However, heels haven’t pierced the ground, nor knuckles into concrete, nor lungs into pillows out of despair, but in an attempt to answer a question seared on the inside of one’s skull: When it’s all free, from the river to the sea, will one be forgiven for only piercing heels into the ground, knuckles into concrete, and lungs into pillows?