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Did you ever think that maybe those headaches.... you know, the ones you get in the afternoons, or sometimes even early mornings, that start at the base of your skull and work their way up through your teeth to settle - snakelike - behind your eyes.... did you ever think that maybe those headaches were perhaps the ideas that stick in your head, yearning for a way out?
Maybe that's why they sit behind your eyes.
Yes, perhaps that's it. Perhaps if you could get those ideas out, set them free to slither across a page somewhere, the headaches would stop. Because if they're ideas then they're not really headaches, anyway.
The drugs don't do anything except keep you awake at night. And the headaches always come back. They're inevitable, like the wind, like the snow in late January, like the banging in your heater. Even when they're not bad, they're there. You can always feel them. Maybe there's only one. Maybe it's the same idea, sitting back there at the base of your skull. No matter how many times you take a pill to dull it's scratching, relieve some of the pressure of it trying to claw out the backs of your eyes, it'll always be back again. Maybe it'll crawl back down into it's cave in the cavity of your chest, where it'll sit in a sleepy, melancholy haze until your head stops floating in caffeine-induced stupor, and it breathe enough to crawl back up through your throat, and nest in that tiny cavity behind your eyes.
Why is the vaccuum so loud, tonight?
It's the idea, mother. It's back again, and it won't come out.
This idea doesn't like the lights. It's unfortunate how you need them to see. But you click that light on, and it's like the spear of Quetzalcoatl, or whatever his name was, or some sun god, jabbing straight through your eyes into the back of your head, where it lodges. The point of that damn light-spear is barbed, you're pretty sure of it. Wouldn't it be nice if whoever stuck it in there would yank it out good and fast, and catch that damn idea-snake? Pull it right out of there.
It's not coming out, otherwise.
But no. Now you've got a light spear sticking out of your eye socket, and every time you turn your head it catches on something - the wall, the mirror, your brother's arm. Whatever it catches on, it hurts like hell.
Damn that idea-snake, and whatever sun god figures it's better dead inside your skull than living on the outside.
You just want to go to bed.
Maybe that's why they sit behind your eyes.
Yes, perhaps that's it. Perhaps if you could get those ideas out, set them free to slither across a page somewhere, the headaches would stop. Because if they're ideas then they're not really headaches, anyway.
The drugs don't do anything except keep you awake at night. And the headaches always come back. They're inevitable, like the wind, like the snow in late January, like the banging in your heater. Even when they're not bad, they're there. You can always feel them. Maybe there's only one. Maybe it's the same idea, sitting back there at the base of your skull. No matter how many times you take a pill to dull it's scratching, relieve some of the pressure of it trying to claw out the backs of your eyes, it'll always be back again. Maybe it'll crawl back down into it's cave in the cavity of your chest, where it'll sit in a sleepy, melancholy haze until your head stops floating in caffeine-induced stupor, and it breathe enough to crawl back up through your throat, and nest in that tiny cavity behind your eyes.
Why is the vaccuum so loud, tonight?
It's the idea, mother. It's back again, and it won't come out.
This idea doesn't like the lights. It's unfortunate how you need them to see. But you click that light on, and it's like the spear of Quetzalcoatl, or whatever his name was, or some sun god, jabbing straight through your eyes into the back of your head, where it lodges. The point of that damn light-spear is barbed, you're pretty sure of it. Wouldn't it be nice if whoever stuck it in there would yank it out good and fast, and catch that damn idea-snake? Pull it right out of there.
It's not coming out, otherwise.
But no. Now you've got a light spear sticking out of your eye socket, and every time you turn your head it catches on something - the wall, the mirror, your brother's arm. Whatever it catches on, it hurts like hell.
Damn that idea-snake, and whatever sun god figures it's better dead inside your skull than living on the outside.
You just want to go to bed.