The skin within

Putting on a show for an invisible, disinterested audience. Speaking, incessant chattering, desperately seeking a spark of recognition, a nod of acknowledgment, approval, affirmation.

Unwavering coldness to contend with, a mask of disillusionment, of irrational anger, of helpless, silent misery. Refuge in the solitude of memory, an escape to another place, another time, anywhere but here. Distracted with nothingness, a pervasive vacuum. Staring into space, lost in idle hope, failing to keep abject boredom at bay. An aching for more, complete ignorance of what that ‘more’ is.

Exhausted by inactivity. Silent screams. Lying in bed for lack of anything, anyone to wake up to, for. Dead in the head, lost in regret, itching for action. Examining toes. Shuddering in the cold, swatting mosquitoes. Counting sheep, deafened by crickets, violent snores, battles with nocturnal demons, otherworldly phantoms.

Disappointment with words, lack of clarity, of articulation, of coherence. Futile attempts at energy. Lack, loss, silence, darkness. A blanket of disarray. Silent and waiting, intrepid resignation. Giving up the ghost. Giving up any feeble attempt to be understood, refusing to emerge from behind the wall. Words in circles, and loops, twisted, meaningless to anyone but yourself. Breathing noisily, writing fitfully, uselessly. Eyelashes, spectacles, swigs of water, moaning in sleep, listening, idly wondering what devils force those moans, gasps, rasps, sighs.

Shafts of light from a door ajar. The glow of a dim lamp. The glow of music, of words, close companions both. Firecrackers, bangs, rolls of thunder, more moans, starts, jerks. An insect crawling up a leg, a timid trek. Amber embers, incense. Incensed. Inhaling the incense, choking on the fragrance. Heady, heavy, toxic, intoxicated, in your skin, within your mind. Inside a book, calling out to a lion, a skin. In its skin. The skin of a lion.