Mind Stuck

Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong inside your body? I have.

I mean, for a moment, out of the blue clear day, you get this idea that you are inside a meat suit, where pain can get to you. Pain can find you in your broken heart, in the mind, in a tooth, anywhere it likes. This fucking sucks.

So you sit there thinking, “I am not my body”. I can take a pill to ease the pain a bit, maybe even forget it for a while, and suddenly you realize that everything in your life is a conversation with yourself, cleverly disguised, by you, to deceive.

And you are doing it; you’re driving the trick machine right off the cliff.
Inside of YOU is this part that might say, “Yes, I get that, I do this.” And this part of you is trapped inside a menagerie of flesh, bone, and nerves just waiting for the end to come. As I said, this fucking sucks.

But that's what it means to be human. I’m still not ready. Are you?

For me, writing as the unique benefit of letting this part of me OUT. It trickles on the page, not giving a fuck, not commenting like an Internet dweeb to some poor bastards comment on Twitter, but encasing my own thoughts, so I can better understand myself. I believe that is all writing is, to barf-up and pillage one's own thoughts out of the dim recesses of the black.

Winter’s coming.

Then we analyze and scrutinize our sentences with a thesaurus at the ready. Balderdash. God, why? So everyone else will have the illusion that we think and write perfectly? We don’t. No one does. No one ever has. Stop pretending. That’s what editors for.
The wonderful event of puking one’s guts up, once completed, is a startling realization of just human we are and what we hide. I will lay there, on the floor of a bathroom, clinging to life, praying to our gods of injustice that I may live for another minute because asking for tomorrow is too much coinciding the sins I have committed. Then I stand up and walk out as nothing has happened.
When my poor, innocent child, does the same thing, I would give anything to spare them the horribleness of puking, because it’s not the actual act that so horrible, it’s the realization, now thrust upon the child, that he now KNOWS he is human after all.

How we wish we could spare them that knowledge for one more day at least.

And so it goes.

Oh, to be an astronaut on the weekends and a fireman during the week- forever.

When the meat suit is functioning fine, all is well… when it’s not, there is nothing else that matters. And is that the birthright of age? Is that the puzzle left to solve, to find a way out of the meat suit, to ease a headache and nausea for at least one more day? Because the bad day is coming for all of us, you know the day. That bad day when it all ends.
But in fairness, today is not my bad day. I hope to hell it’s not your bad day either.
I would rather board a spaceship to unknown galaxies or rage against the fires from hell, one more time, with a big red hat with numbers on it. To trick myself one more time and to forget for a while where I live, where boy meets the world, touching it through wax gloved hands because the fire is too hot. From inside the spacesuit, cut off from the cold biting horrid reality of deep space, the frailty of my human life protected.
So maybe that is it? The meat suit we think is so imperfect, so readily defenseless against the judgment carries us along, moving, changing, growing, loving, reproducing, deceiving, killing and lying. It’s all there- because we are there. And that’s the innocence we will fight and die for- our children and the splendid ability they have to not be mind-stuck; they fly over moons, leap across canyons and dream of places we have grown too old to see anymore, yet we know we once did.

To find a way back is the biggest adventure of all.

• JK

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