Account: I feed Myself to Myself
I think I just might feed myself to myself, to see who's been toying behind the curtain in my soul. Up until now, I was left toying with broken feelings and just taking time to feel for feelings. All the while, I’m unable to recognize a mirror from a window.
I think I just might feed myself to myself to see through the stitches deep down inside.
Like a child with blanketed eyes, I’m tired of breathing in withered lies and watching dreams run from under the bed. Feeling like I orbit in some scripted scheme, the only escape is feeling anything at all. So I sit talking to corners, wondering who waits waving in cracks beneath my head. I’m left stuck up on the thoughts you can't see, with a cracked smile and a painted porcelain face. I can feel them sitting in my soul like the weight of wood floating on water.
I feel a breath in my bed. Like the times when you look down and you see a tear smiling back up at you, I have to know what or who is down there. I need to see them and read the stories in the wrinkles in their faces. And so I packed my bags and left for my insides. I'm heading down past the throat horizon. When I look up at the roof of my mouth, I’ll bet I’ll see the sky.
I think I just might feed myself to myself, to see what grows from the shards of a dead babushka doll. With their crackling skulls, they’ll tell my tale. I'll wither within myself if I have to wither at all.
I hum a sailor's prayer as I sail past the throat horizon. I slip and I slide down my gullet. Swimming in darkness, I slip and slide as the streaks of a life behind me is my shadow. As I swallow myself, I fall and fall and leave to meet with myself way deep down there.
I’ve spent enough time swallowing sighs and never wondering why. And being tricked into to sleep by the hope of a dream. It's time to find out who turns the wheels. If meaning is missing, I’ll find out where'd it went. So I’ll feed myself to myself.
As I fall further down, I think about how funny it is why the tighter you close your eyes the more the wind can look like streaking faces I may’ve known. The streaks bore the same faint familiar feelings painted on the walls lining my innards which are illuminated by the memory of the lost light from above.
I found myself waiting where a seed goes before it decides to grow. I think about lies I've heard about how you can get lost in the twists and turns of your guts where everything disappears.
Standing inside of myself, my feet sinking into the soggy ground beneath and in me. I think to myself this must be where tears come from. How come I have never seen myself from the inside before?
In the distance I see a tree riddled with nuts drooping off the frayed branches. Where two or more meet, you can see images drawn in between them. After a while of time staring blankly, I see a face emerge from the rustling tree. The Face’s wooden eyes look like they have seen the night sky a hundred times over without sleep or a dream in between. And the Face has an elderly presence exuding an allure of some hidden depth inside, but that could be me mistaking the face for the tree.
Treenuts fall from above, crack on the ground and fly back upward rejoining their friends in the tree. The face from between the trees whispers to me from across a distance I would have thought too far to whisper from. “If they're inside of you, you must be a nutcase yourself,” it said this in an aged voice that disguised cynicism as wisdom.
I laugh to myself but from the ways away it appears the Face could still hear. It spoke,
“You laugh to drown out any belief that it might be true. Tell me, little silly one how exactly did you feed yourself to yourself? Hmm, boil you up in alphabet soup, then close your eyes and swallow. Tell me, do you really think you've made it down here, little boy?”
Again I chuckle to myself and try to not think about what The Face said, but as I watch the nuts crack and fly back upwards, down and up and down again and again. I begin to think to myself, how do I really know myself if I'm sitting down below? I fed myself to myself, but it's far too dark to see if I'm made it. All I know is how much I wanted to meet that winking sky that lies waiting behind every curtain stitched so deep down.
Though I’m trying to forget the face’s words, I can’t help but hear him again:
“Silly little you, does it matter if a tree is hollow inside, if when the wind whistles you hear a song? You can sit in the darkness telling stories to the walls and maybe they listen intently, stewing and swimming in you.”
“Silly eyes, I can see you possess them, you’re left hollow with your dreams afloat and hooked on sunken heads in jars, men made of seagulls too scared to fly, and you see flies on the walls and wonder what they look like through the eye of that little painted porcelain doll who smiled so wide she cracked her skull so many many years ago.”
“You may be you, little Silly One, but I know you.”
These stories the Face dug up now so raw are enough to bring me back. I fly upwards and out of my mouth, and then I see myself in a puddle of spit spilling out of my mouth. I looked down at the puddle and it laughs back. He too... we...we feed ourselves to our self.
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