Spinal Knob

A knob in my spine is what’s new and exciting these days.  I can’t imagine what’s really there, although I’ve come to regard it as a small, fist-sized armadillo that is somewhat geometric and less round, mildly pangolin-esque.  I imagine some sort of delivery of it by a suited and gloved and anonymous doctor with glasses and in the thought the delivery is excellent, feels whole, and renders my body younger.  The procedure would be simple: the doctor would incise, and the item or person or mammal or coins would immediately just emerge, and the doctor would present it to me and say, ‘there it is!’  And I would take it with me.  And I would consider it somewhat magical for having embedded itself to the left of my spine, behind my heart, inside my wing, only to become a suspicion.  I would regard the scar as a rite of passage.  I would change my ways and evolve even if the only thing that surfaced was a set of Russian nesting dolls; I would endeavor to be pleased with my days and contribute to the community.  Ambition would be ill suited to me; having the knob come forth would leave me in a place of contentment, and that would be ideal.  Or the mammal, if it was, would become a harbinger of health in the neighborhood or whatever community I might have to inhabit that best suited my new character.  People would knock on or pat at my door and wish to spend a moment with it; I would let them and pour them a cup of soup and it would sadly be packaged and the bottom would unfortunately be thick with sediment reminiscent of a pond’s scum and have dark leaves in the sludge, and it might put people off, but they would not be rude about it, because they would accept it as a sign of good faith and I would know they thought no less of me and didn’t consider it a weakness of someone aging on this sad earth.  They would even keep packets of the soup in their cupboards to best keep a connection with my mammal or creature of my spine just because it tended to exude health in our wake.  It would never be about me–I wouldn’t let it be; after all, I hadn’t done anything other than become a host to this random (technically) parasite.  But to be associated with it would allow me a certain calmness and relax my incessant feeling of unworthiness and failure and would dissolve the angry techtonic collision within which is desperation to manufacture butting with ennui which is another way to crystallize such knobs in one’s spine.  Some volcanic mutant to spend time with and face and say, ‘you are out now, let’s have peace, let them come to us and see us cleaved, as they may desire to be as well.’

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