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The 8th Sphere

I’ve sunk deep. Really deep. I can feel it when I’m this deep. I’m not used to it because it’s been so long. I get so tangled up in my mind and I can’t escape. A thick, dense, black, torrentuous sheet of dismal, dreary, lethargic depression presses on my brain like a woman clenches a hand during childbirth.

I feel like I’ve been straped to the operation table. The greasy pale doctor is scraping at my open head with his filthy black fingernails again and again like a lunatic in search of mysteries in the sod. He keeps reminding me of what I’m trying to forget, screaming it in my ear. The horn of his voice sounds long and loud, it quiets for a minute in my mind, then comes back so unbearably heavy that it fills every space of thought that exists, and sounds as though I was under a moving train, and I cannot even move.

My throat feels like a needle he has thrust a needle inside, he is frantically moving it back and forth in search of a vein or artery. He keeps telling me that he has almost found it as he dances with his lovely syringe above me with a smile strewn across his face like holiday decorations.

The blood pumps only into my heart, but never leaves. It is a balloon that receives unceasing breathes. It is a mother who’s child will not leave the womb. It is the last bite of an overbearing and expensive meal.

My limbs are dark and blue from lack of circulation. The muscles hang like fat off a chicken bone. My arms drupe to my sides like excess skin and my legs are those of Atlas, and I do not dare step for fear I will be crushed under the weight of the world.

My fingers feel pressed against the floor. I cut the nails shorter and shorter, determined to make each one of equal size and shape. They bleed and I lick the blood off every second in order to remeasure and again cut, tearing the skin away from the target in order to clip even but a sliver.

If I only had not a mind. If I only had not the knowledge. All knowledge is freedom. All knowledge is a knife.

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