Not in the mood for music...

It's like slogging through the swamp, mud clinging to your calves and thighs while trying to high step it, so as not to catch on the things you can't see lurking below the surface.

It's like running a marathon through a field of sawgrass in bike shorts. Lacerations pouring a sticky, seed riddled crimson all the way down into your socks where it stays moist, squishing at every pointed step.

Leaning into a wind shear that tears at your skin, cracking the edges of your eyes and lips and nose. Unbidden tears form and stream back into your hair.

But there's nothing you can do about it. You starve on the other side of the swamp. You're slaughtered on the edge of the field. A broken body cast off of the cliff by the wind.

There's still a throbbing in my chest, clipped with the edge of scissors,  scored by errant fingernails, pinched between the door and the jamb. Maybe not purposeful, maybe not malicious, but when you stub your toe in the dark on the way to the can don't a few choice words spill from your lips?

Endurance is the key in all things. Take the bleeding, the infection, the cracked skin, it all pays off in the end, right?

Right?

But even in this exercise, in this venting, I still feel like a mental patient banging my head against the screened glass. A slow, constant rhythm.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Until the skin breaks.

Thuck.

Thuck.

Thuck.

And the skull begins to open.

Thwuck.

Thwuck.

Thwuck.

And the body realizes what it's doing, what's becoming of it. And decides that's the path of least resistance, and every muscle in the body concentrates on spilling out the physical thoughts, splattering folds and cerebral fluid on the milky red and blue square until the nerves stop responding. Until it all stops responding.

And the horror of it all, is that it can't be stopped. It's that tiny snowball that sets off the avalanche. All that can be done is to lean into it, and hope someone hears.

Thunk.