Erratic sharp spikes of pain skewering thoughts. Fleeting notions permeate the membrane, leaving a small droplet of blood in its trace. Ouch! Disorganization of inner world; a bout of longing. A bandaid, the art of solitude, stealing happiness from loneliness.

The largest and most generic Walgreens version of wound coverage is putting thoughts into an outlet, into an action. Tape gauze to the wound, apply pressure. Redirect the blood flow, connection others.

Hydrogen peroxide, focus on the pain. I dislike the feeling of daze. Direct the thinking. Drape a wet cloth over the wound, consuming media.

Skin glue, a false sene of clarity. Is direction merely an assurance replacement? The sense of self changes shape. I am running out of bandage options. To avoid sitting in discomfort, play a game. 

I can always play with myself. Solitaire, the game for one. I shuffle my cards. An endless cycle of pulling from the deck. When the game ends, shuffle again. Another round, another rally. Keep the stakes high, constantly betting it all. I have no fear. I can never lose it all, for I will always have my game.

Stimulate, agitate, facilitate, whatever tools I must enlist to power ahead, preferably at full steam. Perpetually refilling the train car with coal before it runs out. The mind, a locomotive – a vehicle which stops at no crossings brings about the threat of damages bound to occur. I conduct a bullet train, for it sees the most. Pride derived from the ability to reach bountiful destinations at the pace I set. Passengers climb in for a lift, and deboard at their stop. Engagements and conversations are the price to ride. The railway may change direction in accordance with the will of its passengers. A means to the corners of their world, a place only the rider knows – the train catches a brief glimpse, never stopping for more than a moment.

Each passing platform proves to be even more grey and desolate than the last. I cannot stop. In a moment of panic I consider pulling the emergency brake, but when I look down I see that I have dismantled it. Splayed wires cover every inch of my lap. Should I tell the passengers aboard that the the final destination can only be reached upon the contingency of my demise? Do not cause panic – the scenery is so beautiful through the rounded train windows, why ruin the moment? I must live with the burden of my eternal destination, why not save others from that knowledge – it is simply the polite thing to do. I may as well become comfortable with it, as it will ride with me forever.