It wasn't the 1st time, but last night they were at it again, chipping away on the inside of my head. Sometimes I think they're trying to get out, other times that they're engraving memories on the inside of my head for future explorers to find, like indecipherable carvings in a freshly uncovered cave. Whatever the reason, I wish they'd stop. It's my head, after all. And they're my thoughts. So what's the deal? What's with the constant chipping? It's not even that I care that much as to their purpose, it's just that I wish they'd stop.
It's a bit like those elderly white women at a dainty tea party in the middle of turn-of-the-century Africa. �What's that noise?� one says to the other, referring to the gunfire in the streets behind the finely manicured hedge and the plumes of smoke billowing the smell of burning bodies over the European-style rooftops. �Oh, nothing,� the other elderly woman replies, sipping her tea, �Just the natives at it again.�
The natives at it again, the thoughts in my head doing what they do, uncontrolled chipping, carving, sometimes even hacking, engraving their names. Their names are those of the feelings, those of the knowledge, that you're dimly aware of yet can't describe, but find lurking late at night under the crumbling rocks of your waking dreams. I hope they stop. I hope they stop. I. Hope. They. Stop.