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Poke, prod, probe, sticking my fingers where they don't belong. Searching
the shattered windows of clouded eyes, pushing beyond to see the secrets that
lie cluttered behind the barriers. I lift and open, pry and tear the seals
and locks in thoughtless curiosity.
Having bared the inner tissue, I set aside my smithy tools, remove the gloves
and begin my examination with unsheathed talon-like digits. I quickly thumb
through an index of memories, carelessly stacking those of interest in a stark
corner for further evaluation. I run my fingers along the convolutions, testing
for texture, quality, reaction and general content.
Engrossed, I spend hours sifting and careening the fabric of this other,
now defenseless self. Satiated, at last I withdraw my presence, feeling somewhat
bloated from satisfaction and the thoughts that serve as food. Amidst my heedless
exit, I chance to pass my hands within my field of vision and am surprised
to find them dripping of gored flesh and accompanying fluids.
Turning about, I survey disheveled mental baggage that has been imprinted,
perhaps even damaged by my riflings. Evidence of my passage is easily tracked
and followed by the trailings of my blood-drenched hands.
A portion of my rationale is disparaged by my unprovoked crimes. I woefully
berate myself, while speculating how much greater the weight of guilt is for
those who desecrate the soul instead of its place of residence. The bruises
I leave do not heal easily nor swiftly when measured against those of the
body, sometimes never mending at all, most often scars remain as evidence
that speak of my strong arm tactics.
Uncomfortable, I review those I have examined and cringe as I see what my
insightful discoveries have cost my test subjects. Their pain and uncomprehending
fear crash into my mind, not as accusations, instead the messages stem from
remorse over broken trust and openness exploited.
Yes, that portion stands horrified by my transgressions, mouth open, eyes
wide over the trauma I have caused that is deems necessary to relive first
hand. Ahh, but meanwhile another portion of my mind contentedly crouches,
absentmindedly licking the errant thoughts from his fingers, purr in his throat.
Yet another finds fulfillment in absorbing and analyzing the results.
Should I curb this cannibalistic tendency? Moral decisions are such tedious
uphill battles and that is one incline that at present, I am not inclined
to take.
[© 1994 Joseph Wheeler, all rights reserved]