Reaching up I undo the latch on my forehead, and flip up the top of my skull. A chattering, crackling, slidy noise erupts from the space. I tip my head to the side, and dump the contents into a basin. The glow and pulse, shiver and writhe, dark and light, dead and living, all parts mixed. Like a radioactive whirligig, entangled in itself. I cautiously put my hand into the high strung chaos, feeling around, warm pleasant bits, soft and comfortable, others cold and sharp, none of them discernible by sight, only by feeling, and trial and error. Finding the largest bit of warmth and softness, I grasp it firmly and pull. The chattering erupts into a crescendo, like screaming factory gears, and motherly hums, soothing assurances and screeches of terror. The sharp bits catch on the soft, and it becomes difficult to extract the bit I am holding from the rest. I pry at the rusty barbs in the soft pink fluff, and wriggle them out, nicking myself, drawing blood.My concentration mounts and sweat forms on my brow, under my neck, in my armpits. My eyes slide in and out of focus as my contacts become dry, from going too long without blinking. Finally, I retrieve the warm ball of joy from the cosmos in the basin. Disinfecting my fingers, I put on some band-aids, and get ready to plunge my hands back into the fray.
Breathe Chris, just breathe
No comments:
Post a Comment