Just Think.

There are two corners to my left eye's peering view. And to my right, two top pyramids are inverted to their geometric peaks. The walls feel grooved, tense, and wet. My crouched position has given me no feeling in my knees, and on my legs crawl those invisible ants that shrinkwrap my muscles like packaged meat. I sit in this wholly uncompromising position and sit and sit and think. Because I cannot paint myself this conjecture and the reasons behind it. Not anymore can I feel over these grooves in the walls and these splinters which nick me on the way. I cannot sit still nor can I breathe still.

It's times like these that I wish this were more than life. That this was my play, with figurines and plastic tables and such. Where the immovable were movable and where blinking faces no longer needed to bat their fragile lashes. It's times like these where I wish that my eraserface could kiss the faces of people that I needed but couldn't see me in the first place. Where I could blank out their eyes to where their lashes didn't need batting in the first place. It's times like these where I wish the camera reel was batting its transparent lashes, and splices of life came fluttering down in some dark, flashing room--preferably in some place around the back of my brain.

I propose that these corners unpoint, turn their faces, and rethink about what they mean to me, as I will to them. I want these grooves to smooth into something unfamiliar but, yet, exciting and electric and gratifying. It's time for these walls to shift into something new. To morph. Something like a sphere. Something like a dream.