It’s too bright out for whatever has happened to my head. When I just open my eyes all the way, even, this happens. When I do move, even slightly, my head throbs as though someone’s pounding it with a hammer and vomit churns up in my throat. For the time being it’s OK to be practically dead on a gravel road. (I’m not thinking this in all these words, exactly.)įor the time being it seems just fine that I’m immobile, lying here and thinking these things. Pain being a survival response, survival of the being that feels said pain. I surmise that I am (alive) for a few reasons, the main one being that I’m in an incredible amount of pain, and it seems dying would, well, preclude the need for said pain. I’m not really trying to be metaphysical, here – it’s an honest question. A crack? Is my head cracked open? Me thinking that thought, though, asking myself that question, I don’t know, can you think this way if your head’s cracked open? Can you think at all? Can you live? On the back of my bald head there’s a huge lump, a huge knot of dried blood. The slightest movement and there’s this hot evil pain, a dull knife stuck through my temple. To my body something catastrophic has happened and there’s a pain in my head, an unbelievable pain in my head. Then there’s more light, and I’ve gathered this much: I’m face down on a gravel road and something terrible has happened. Dust and gravel stuck in spit and, what is that? Blood? Yes, blood, and pain, pain like bright flashing light. The sun, baking me, and dust in my mouth. This dirt road upon which I’m lying face down. Next, there’s just the sun, the light, and dust in my mouth. Periods of pure black darkness and pure white pain. No, not entirely true: in the beginning there is nothing but pain. Soon.īut right now, there are pretty songs. Soon they will scrape my face clean, smack my ass, and throw me into another horror built of stone and metal. This spherical pile of shit illuminated by a hateful and ugly ball of burning gas. Soon, once again, they’ll pry me out, expose my quivering and screaming body to the horrible light of the sun, this world of abrasion and terror. The thud of footsteps, nearer every second. Ghostly voices, urgent, growing more concrete. It’s an obvious conclusion: this Dumpster is dark, warm, juicy, smelly, and from outside there’s soft music, getting louder. As I lay here, bleeding and surrounded by garbage, supported by garbage, lying back in a surprisingly comfy throne of garbage in my little hidey-hole, a certain type of person could say I’ve, symbolically, given up on this shithead world and crawled back into the hole from whence I came. A Freudian analysis of this whole sorry episode would, inevitably, lead to a discussion of my crawling back into the womb.
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