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I am staring at a static screen at 8 am in my apartment, and it stares back at me, opening me up from the inside. 

I’m a week off my antidepressants today because depression, ha ha ha. Apparently pill-to-mouth is a too-complicated procedure. I just found out I have the genetic marker for increased cancer and people are clamoring to call me after my test. The word oncology makes me numb, recalls the memory of my mother's hand slipping off my shoulder for the last time, her voice a ghost caught on my answering machine. 

The tv is on silent, the pixellated flashing dots mesmerizing, something to get lost in. I can fully understand how those crazy people in movies can stare at this shit for hours, seeing messages that aren’t there. When you forget to mute, it’s a whole different story- a thousand tongueless mouths screaming at you with a sound that’s the inverse of sound but twice as loud. Horror movie fodder, either way. You know the scene: person wakes up in the middle of the night, sweat-slicked, pads into the room and sees the screen glowing, those salt and pepper dots racing around, the low roar of the sea in their ears, their mouth, drowning them. 

When I was a kid, it used to look to me like a herd of buffalo, trampling over everything in sight. But now it looks to me like the natural effect when everything that is so painstakingly, cleverly constructed is stripped away. the death of the ego. the one hand clapping. the abyss. a shriek that dives back into the throat. the longer I look, the more it wiggles and writhes like termites in rot, maggots in flesh, like worms-

or simply the ultimate embodiment of pure energy, the echo of the big bang, the crackling that is behind all life. Sometimes I feel if you opened us up, you'd find nothing but this inside.