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There’s something stuck inside me.

Almost like the fine bone off a moist fish

Deboned, but for anomalies.

Or the hair of an unassuming chef,

Cordoned off, but for this escaped convict.

Maybe even the excess cinnamon

That coats itself into a stoic red blanket,

denying me a simple swallow.

It shifts,

Every now and then;

And vanishes such that its existence itself

Becomes an unfathomable possibility.

And free days of unperturbed comfort,


Yet, soon,

with the obvious predictability of a time-tested truth,

It shifts again,

And gets stuck with an almost vehement ferocity.

As if to punish

The transgression of doubt

At the nakedly displayed truth.

I tried to regurgitate it,

But what was already devoured,

Was either digested

Or imbibed into the very blood running through my veins

Leaving behind wretched echoes of pointless retching.

I tried to write about it,

But when words took shape;

It lost it's.

And these letters ran around like mice in my innards,

Incoherent steps of spaces and words

amplifying the insubstantial ache.

I tried to talk about it

And they sat patiently by.

Yet soon,

Unable to stay silent in my silence;

What was stuck inside them

Came pouring out.

And so,

Mine stuck a bit deeper into me.

So I search,

Maybe for someone who can bear my silence,

Or with a deafening silence of their own.

So that mine is pulled out;

With loud,

Inappropriate sucking noises

Like that of a vacuum:

And I can be unstuck again.

I recently found out that vacuum is far more fragile than it principally seems. Vacuum shed hair, broken glass, paperclips and they may break the very machine that is built to clean your space of scattered disuse. There's really no one stop solution to cleaning. Whether it be within or without. And the same is true for people.

Are there times, where you feel like there's something almost physical stuck inside you? Something that you barely feel amid distractions of life as "usual", but then are acutely aware of at night, when you're finally alone within yourself? And then you try to get it out, but conventional means do not work, so you ultimately search for someone with the same discomfort to suck it out of you and in that manner: allay your own. We're a peculiar thing, humans - in searching for solace as a solution; soothed by echoes, even if of our demons. While oft forgetting that this solace and the echo, is a mere, albeit highly desirable, figment of our perspective.

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