Picture it, you wake up in hospital while being wheeled into theatre. The sedatives are slowly kicking in again just as the doors into the room close behind you. There are nurses – women from your past (ex-girlfriends and other randoms you fancied) – they’re placing electrodes (I think that’s what they’re called) on your skin. Cold fingers as your slowly fading. They cover your body, leaving space by the chest. You hear the approaching surgeon say something about your heart, his voice sounds familiar. The closer he gets, the easier it is to see his eyes, they too look familiar. It’s when he bends over you with the scalpel that you recognise him, seconds before you loose consciousness: it’s you.

Introspection is a minefield. The more I dig in, the more I learn about how my mind strategises against me. As I lie on the table, I scantly find myself with the knife, unable – for fear and a warped sense of self love – to make the necessary incisions. Thus I leave all the ghouls and skeletons that need facing and expelling, lingering beneath the skin – which would seem perfect now but in actuality would be better free and with the scar. Worse still, I’m terrified of other surgeons, trusting others with my vulnerability being the main mlima (mountain).

So, as the dying boy – wounded from jousts with Adulthood – hangs on by a straw, I stand unwilling to help.

I lift my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help


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