My mind is not a prepossessing place . It is gravid with preponderant suppurations that threaten to burst their pus filled sores. Imagine if such a thing were to happen. What a gelid malodorous emanation there'd be. And imagine that unctuous bitterness. I can feel the bilge rising up in my throat even contemplating it.
My unconscious is a tangled shrub. Spores of flora, such are my memories, stipple the shrub. The occasional thorn pricks as a painful memory. The pulpy mess that is my brain, in response to these prickings, oozes green blood. There are frayed leaves, discarded memories that swirl and whirl. And sometimes my conscious mind like a giant foot crunches them, powdering them into infinitesimal remnants.
Concatenated around this shrub, the frayed leaves, healthy leaves, thorns or perhaps memories, deliberations, thoughts is the shape of a mosaic. My brain is the mosaic. There are arabesques, compartments which constantly reshuffle as the waves of memories ebb and flow, roil and churn. But this mosaic is soggy, sodden, dripping green blood. Sometimes i get the desire to shred this sodden mess , crush it and drink up the oleaginous residue it leaves. My conscious keeps the whole thing running outwardly. The tangled shrub is the kaleidoscope which whirls up randomness, vertiginously. As something is thrown up, an indentation is made in the soggy mess. I imagine putting my finger in there and licking the ooze
Perhaps this misshapen lump will be embalmed for futurity. It will continue to drip its oily residuum's . My body will be floating, somewhere in space.