My insides feel like they're being pounded on by a fist made of broken feelings, tears, and small slivers of glass and splinters worming their way into my pores. The pressure in my head makes my eyes swim and I see in front of me a shrieking Medusa whose hair is made of the wisps of lost dreams that floated out of my head ages ago, replaced by lethargy. My thoughts are molasses, the harder you swirl the more sticky it gets and everything good is suffocated and held down. I don't feel anything anymore. My mind is blank-- so contrary to the usual overflowing maelstrom of ideas whirling around in a typhoon-like force ready to crash and suck in energy.
My third eye is blind. It is unseeing. I've turned into a blob who has no goals-- who shrugs at people with ambitions. Even my regular eyes have stopped registering smiles, concerned glances, secret winks. Everything glazes over and I don't have the energy to make myself focus the lens. The camera is just jostled about, barely hanging by its strap off the neck of a once-fluffy sheep.
My face has turned puffy because I seldom use the muscles to smile, to grimace, or to frown. I'm blander than a bowl of porridge. I live on laziness. The only place where I find solace and company is in my dreams. There no one will judge me for my freakish habits, for my strange tastes and for my absurd opinions. I wish to escape the real world without exerting any effort to vanish into the next. Nothing can console my bleeding heart.
