Literary Works

Smash My Head In

       My eyes feel like they are going to explode out of their sockets. A throb, a burning sensation originates from the very depths of these windows to the soul. The space accommodating my muscle/organ that realizes, analyzes, reasons, and interprets is now in a vice grip. With every passing minute, that grip is tightened and more energy and will is squeezed out of me. It surprises me that blood has not yet begun to run down my nose, to seep through my tear ducts and eye orefices, and to burst, streaming from my ears. I taste blood; I smell it. Why, then, do I not see it? Because it most likely does not exist. It is possible that my imagination is again bored and being the masochist that I am, it has decided to have a go at my pain toleration. My mind plays tricks on me so often that it should be a celebrated event when I am ever in a right state of mind. Gah. I see static. Chaos and senselessness personified. Black specs upon white specs upon grey specs and so on and so forth. Along with the visual is the deafening high-pitched ringing with the scratchy hiss associated with that frenzy of confusion. Everything is fuzzy. Being forced to deal with this surrealism for any prolonged period of time would drive most anyone to madness. Have I passed the point of no return? Is this my own self-induced prison of insanity? A grogginess has come over me. My head now weighs no less than a metric ton. It has dropped to the tabletop and I cannot produce the proper amount of force abled to budge it. Suffering in this chokehold, every ounce of sanity has been suffocated from the fiber of my being. I am Honda's inability to perceive normality, begging you to put me out of my misery.