Shrink

'Have you ever considered asking for professional help?'

'Excuse me?'

'Visiting a psychiatrist.'

'And what good would that do?'

'I know an excellent therapist. He can work wonders.'

Work wonders. Great. A shrink. I don’t need freaking wonders. I have enough of them in my mind, all of them waiting for fulfilment, stuck in the plastic universe of my imagination, filled with cracking fireworks and waterfalls and tornadoes and shooting stars and romantic moments that even Hollywood would want to get her greasy hands on. I’m sick of them.

What could I say to a psychiatrist? That I can see the world in its pixels, buzzing in billions of buds, some more impulsively, some hardly resonating? That I hallucinate smells, and food tastes likes ash and water like magma? Should I tell him that I can feel my skin becoming fragmented, shattering to shards and aching with desiccation? That the surrealism meter of my dreams is hitting the roof because I’m tired of suppressing my fancies? That everytime I wake up I feel as if a blanket of nightmare tsunami would draw back from me and leave me there with all the dubris dumped on me and I have no idea how to get rid of it? That every day feels like an uphill battle, without progress, hope for change, and I’m just wallowing in the same rut, same junk of complaints, same fire of failures? That I am slugging in a bell jar filled with toxic smog given off by my own fuming insanity? 
The best he can do is give me a box of pills to silence the voices in my head, or at least, turn the volume down. 

/2011.03.12./