The awful truth (Or: The suicide)
I’m trying to get to the core of myself. Some awful truth is trapped there, although I do not know even its faintest contours. The way is interminably long, and the terrain perilous. A journey to the earth’s core would be less fraught with hardship, the planet’s molten bowels a welcome relief. How did my body build these layers of impenetrable rock? My mind plays at civil war. If I can’t tunnel to the center, I’ll unhinge. All my life I’ve tongued flavors of foreboding, ferried constantly to my lips on the currents of a complicit wind. (That is to say: every day of my self-reflective life, which began around my fifteenth birthday). I need to have that truth cracked open, its poison made known. Even if it destroys me.
How do I get there? The layers of fluff and gauze are harder to penetrate than those made of diamond – each time I push or dig or drill or detonate, the fluff thickens and the gauze stretches to accommodate my newly-made shape. I test potential realities by guessing: abuseincestdrugsrapetorture? Persecutionabductionexperimentation by necromantic or alien powers? Nothing clicks, and my heart grows desolate and dim. Meanwhile, my mind oozes minute psychoneurosis, and measly but habitual troubles plague my physical self: rashes, neck pain, toenail fungus, dry eye, hair loss, poor circulation, constipation, asthma.
A half-century later, towards the end of my life, the truth surfaces nonchalantly, like an escaped helium balloon: there was never any trauma. Period. My childhood was no-hiccups idyllic; the bland mediocrity of my adultness has reflected that dearth of early adversity. Sure, I’ve had splashes of mental and bodily strain – nothing major enough to make things interesting though. My being has meant very little to me, and less to anyone else. Existence is an astounding fact. And I think, not quite bitterly, perhaps with a tiny wry upturn of mouth corners, that its wonderment was wasted on me.
~ by kingzoko on February 24, 2017.