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Introspection

Within the folds of the soul I find some discarded trash like wet laundry forgotten in the washer, annoyingly tugging at the back of my eye sockets, beckoning for them to turn inwards and look. Trash that has been sitting there refusing to decompose, wrapping around like some manmade plastic, created from scenarios and conversations, rearing its ugly head in the depth of my dreams, suffocating. My eyes turn inward for a second, blink, and it's gone. Introspection, inspection, inspector gadget, gadgets are fun, fun is good, good and bad, yin and yang. I get up and walk to the trash can to discard my tea bag from this morning, but the trash smells. It smells like sadness, remainders of fish, healthy fruit peels, of broken hearts and disappointment, what trash normally smells like. I hold my breath and close the lid. Lights flicker, a moth hits the lamp, not so much attracted to it as it turns out but disoriented by it. A stab in the back that light is, a tricky thing. A drawer in my brain opens, revealing something I had forgotten. A distant memory, a memory of an emotion, an emotion going through the motion, lotion, I forgot to put on lotion. The skin is the largest organ and it needs lubrication, like trains and cars and joints. Joints of the knees, joints rolled in paper, conjoined twins, a brain and a heart. I pop some popcorn, sit back and relax in the dark. I watch the battle between brain and heart, the greatest entertainment, thinking and feeling, nonsense and more nonsense, some more trash rolls around like tumbling weed in the dessert on a windy day. Something runs by quickly and disappears behind a neuron. I close my eyes and open them on the other side, blink once, blink twice. It is loud and quiet at the same time, 65 beats per minute with a dash of anxiety. An eyelash gets in my eye and disappears, probably appearing on the other normal side, forever circling around the globe with its other lost friends. More annoyances but I must stay focused, putting on my wet suit and fins, getting ready to dive in the dark like a puppy thrown in water for the first time. Each dive is a first time because the last was carefully forgotten, "experience" becoming a humorous word resembling a news reporter talking about an empathetic serial killer who just had to do it. There it is, in one specific fold, that piece of trash stuck like gum in your hair, that one time someone did this and that or said this and that and it stuck like exotic parasite, especially resistant to modern medicine. I yank it out and wonder what to do, bury it, cut it into pieces, talk to it, ask why, wonder what if but literature has instructed me to let it go. So I let it go and it wraps its tentacles around my finger as to marry me, plays the victim, changes its faces, tells me it is part of me, gets my sympathy but I don't hold on to it and let it go. And so it does, it goes. I see more trash in the distance but I have run out of air and I could use a nap so I swim back up. I will worry about it later.






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