Breathe out, needle in, breathe in, pressure out. A cycle of the liberation of anger and anguish and fear- all condensed in energy balls I did not think existed in my body. 

My face faces the floor; it tries to keep my mind grounded. 

It’s been three months since my mind has wandered through ideas I scorn; they trapped me in a cage, and as a malleable prisoner, I began to accept that tiny, burning box as reality. I blocked my thoughts, feelings that can only be released with a needle’s spike. 

Breathe in, needle out. 

My eyes land on what seems to be nothing more than mighty scribbles a mason accidentally left on the floor.

Suddenly, I see a woman; she sat in the lotus pose; she was calm; I absorbed her. Blink. Same spot, different sight. Now I can see a lion: a metamorphosis which makes absolute sense- then I realized where all my heavy breathing was coming from.

The needles are the keys; they unblock whatever monster I suppress; they turn it into creativity- into the floor’s drawings. They release the soul from the cage it has kept hostage, a life I had forgotten.

Breathe in, needle in. 

I look at the spot where there once was a woman and then a lion. I see nothing. So my eyes dig further into lines of impetuosity. Nothing, nothing, nothing- fuck.

Breathe out, pressure in. 

I open my eyes; the lines on the floor’s bricks never made more sense to me- they tell me stories. 

I look at another spot at even more awkward scribbles. 

And the newly uncaged soul whispers in my ears: “It’s a woman and she’s screaming, spitting fire, she has a tale; a mermaid tale- or is it a lion tale. I don’t know; she’s a woman- it can be both, it can be whatever.”

I search for the energy my breath spits out. Stills, these scribbles get lost in the valleys of dull, old nothingness that sometimes colonize my brain.

Needle in, one more. 

Aha, I finally see it. She spits fire because she can’t tolerate any more absurdity; she can either be a mermaid or a witch or a lion. She’s a woman, and her energies told her to spit out what blocked them in the first place.

She’s ugly, very ugly; why would my eyes even want me to see that. Nonetheless, when we spit out daily nightmares, we all are. 

Needles out, it is over. 

I sit and stare at the cloudy sky. We share the same hasty thoughts- the sun tries to speak to me, she releases some light, but the clouds overshadow most of her.

I get my notebook.

Words out, nonsense in. 

This shall not make sense to you.

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