Ossídio Gaspar

Hopefully this change of mind is the clearing of an anxiety rather than the immature growth of a new one.

On a day I will split my head open and let the anxiety juice spill out onto the floor. It will pullulate from the cracks of my broken eggshell skull and ruminate from the meetings of my face and hairline all the way down to the bottom that will horizon the flow. It will valley over awkward protrusions and cascade between uneven cavities that lie unbodied in its course. The soles of my feet, where my action usually ends, will feel it at the edge of its posterior course. The puddle it then forms will lake a leak for a while before exuding entirely. I, myself, will not fall over until the dizziness from nothing left makes me fall in on myself. I will crumble to no more than the width of my standing circumference. People, who were in no way witnesses to this detachment of things, will not walk over my fallen remainder because it makes no difference either way, as there is no reminder.

I will crack my head open like a nutshell and there will be no one left to stare. The headache that had been within will evaporate in the size of everything else and finally live long and prosper in the nation it knew better than I did, the borders it wanted more than I ever did. The pretty suit left over will drop softly through the height of its full standing and lie in on itself – a flat cylinder. The rest of me in a pool dedicated in memoriam to being left alone. Someone will pick me up and wear me for a joke on some uncomplex evening, possibly for the purpose of entertaining another person native to a country I would have never known. We will be three people dancing on that poetic night, minus me of course. The poetry is a given because it exists everywhere just as it is, as does my headache now. Nothing hurts. The pain of having gone through this experience is the new plain and unbreakable horizon for the answer to all future pain: it has been lived, it is done.

At first I will remove my ears and my nose, then I will take off my lips and one layer of the skin that surfaces my face and, after that, finally, I will take out my eyes. A very fine and dry sand will start to seep out from the gaps formed at either side of my head, the sand will slowly hourglass onto my shoulders, creating a finite but melodic sound as it reaches its first base. A similar evisceration will occur through the nosey opening at the very front of my face, only this one will make it to the bottom of the world in one single fall, and the musicality of its journey will be much harder to discern from its one great stretch. But a much more humid, although still grainy, substance will scoopingly drop from the unmediated passageways of my lip-missing mouth and my empty-looking eyes. This one will gravitate with a more deadening impact; moisture in its directing – much heavier, more certain to fall, even if everything else is still going to fall anyway.

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