The world is too much against us, specifically, our flesh, specifically, our heads, specifically, what is inside that fearless and flawless and feelingless bone cradle we call our skulls.
Or maybe it is the thin veneer of flesh and muscle outside that ivory tower that pulls at us, drums our temples as though it’s a religious festival and we are the main attraction.
Or maybe the cells have rebelled and a revolution is awake in our blood, the white blood cells screaming down the veins in a vain attempt at order – vain, not because order does not return, but because order is simply slow chaos.
Or maybe I should have put on that foil hat so that the voices trying to reach my head would have easy access rather than, as now, battering ceaselessly against my skin as though, even if I wanted to, I could let them in.
Or maybe it’s an egg that has surreptitiously supplanted your head and the pressure you feel is the animal inside – bird or reptile? Reptile – slowly cracking its way out of the shell, that thick shank of bone, what was your head.
Or maybe we are weeds, our heads the final flowering, and just as a dandelion stretches its many arms to the wind and then scatters its thoughts over the fallow ground as if it were a mixed metaphor trying to justify its mixed metaphoricalness, our heads eventually swell to bursting with the seeds of others yet to be born, and then they burst.
By the way, I’m hungover.