It's only you: The machine you cannot be.

It's only you: The machine you cannot be.

Self-awareness cripples the queasy, more delicate members of our homosapian race. I join this tertiary body of dysmorphics, recovering addicts and mal-adjusted self- effacing depressives whom would treat these visions as a side effect, symptom or some such undesirable realisation from the unending hallucinogen of life.

The woowse now sloshes around my internals. Everything's wrong and not quite intact. I'm starting to feel like humans should feel all the time if they hadn't ignored or stopped to pay attention to what and how things are in whatever named location they appear to be in.

I, like you have no skill, no specialty that makes me in anyway divine or noteworthy beyond whatever menial part I play in the continued tasking to keep this race from cataclysm. It’s not important not like that at least, it’s not big. You've ignored it or rather it's made itself ignore itself. The it, the interconnected composites, our functioning parts, are floating amongst our liquid plasma slopped beside our fellow organs, rising, pumping and multi stranded flexing autonomously yet unified, synced.  Though strangely ignorant to these particular thoughts I'm thinking. That's not the only thing making me sick but it assists in worsening the gurgles.

Bending fingers tension tendons, pull muscles; pump blood down swollen overhung vein tubes thinly veiled in semi opaque skin wraps for my delectable perturbation. Like a magician revealing a trick or a post modernist building brazenly showing off the parts of its sum, it's there; it's always there.

Why does it make me queasy? Hu, hu, huh. Burp! It's rising up, outa my hands, twitches, clenches hell's sharp stabbing starts. Why does it turn my food acidiser to think of us as us? Why does it make my willy give me the willies?

In this state I can't even look at attractive people without a queer revulsion permeating every attempt at my minds desperate innate attempts at feux eroticism. Yet now I’m not fantasising about the tertiary foliage atop those tree trunks or depths of that swollen glistening chest. I fixate on deficiencies and peculiarities like deep-lipped wrinkles and the reflective waxy grease of an uncleansed ear. The hump of a spot patted with foundation yet building, swelling in pustule force poised to destruct, a burst capillary amongst a sea of clarity or as I see it more potential ruptures, wriggly crazed blood vessels near that crevice where crusty sleep lay. White soft downy fluff misting attractive attention with white fear, a future bearded lady? Or worse some semi domesticated Bigfoot? Lower down locks, a sly eyed fence of stretch marks picketing a panty line.

No ones immune. Stray follicles, any lump of any sort anywhere it shouldn't. The patch of pockey red blushed skin on an overweight anemic's upper armed base coat that's almost completely hidden we're it not for the large big mac meal at the weekend and the preceding mild weather necessitating a freedom to let sweat and bare more. The sentencing continues on autopilot the only slight relief is repetition and the completion of a full identification. Then the mind kicks back in and the imagination beats my twee observations with filthy hidden horrors. Lice infestation, putrification, mutilation, diseases, cysts, warts, sores, gaping holes and stinking rotten fungus. I stop, because it stopped making sense or made too much sense. There is not a thing I cannot avoid thinking of as meat, filth or living breathing rot.

I'll start to feel normal soon. My stomach will start processing and cease exorcising. I'll see the superficial once more and ignore the depths of those pustulated sores. It'll be right, right is preferable to wrong and real.

I share this fallibility as any man or woman can. I've got ugly scars, veins, lumps, bumps and ills most if not all you care to name, but I'm the judge for you and you for me and only I wrote this.