A mind of my own?

Sitting on the edge of my tub putting my knee high blue and black striped toe socks on, I thought, Hey, I haven't had a nosebleed in a while. I guess I am OK without the humidifier on.

At the precise moment that thought completed, I felt the telltale drip rolling down my right nostril.

Really? Maybe it's just drainage. I tipped my head back a little to see up my nostril in the mirror. Nope, blood slowly gathering at the precipice.

I stood up and reached for a square of toilet paper. Since the blood wasn't pouring like an open faucet, I took the time to fold the square into thirds, then in half. I tore it in half, took one piece, folded it in half and stuffed it up my right nostril. (For whatever reason, my nose typically favors bleeds exclusively to the right.)

I sat back down on the tub's edge and finished putting on my socks before standing up again.

After a minute, I pulled the toilet paper from my nose; the bleeding had stopped. It was seriously just one drop of blood.

My brain is fucking with me.

A voice from within, like mine but a bit deeper and gravelly like I'd been smoking for twenty years, said, "If you think your brain is separate from your body, a discrete location for your mind, you're wrong."

No, I know that. These past few months have made that abundantly clear. I don't need any more reminders.

With a smirk I felt more than saw, my body said, "I'm the boss of you, kid." If she had a pack of cigarettes, she would've deftly lit one and taken a long drag, blowing the smoke out in rings towards my face. I, in turn, would've brushed them away, coughing, as my body said, "Now why don't you run along."


A year ago on TTaT: Sketchbook, page 26