It's close to the surface, now. It's close, but I don't feel depressed. I feel angry. I feel hostile. I want to take a pipe to the whole world. Fucking club the planet into the gutter and watch the blood drain into the sun. I want to knee the cosmos in the groin, and it's all I can do to not grab a handy substitute.
So close. Just under the skin. If I could flex just right, pull my skin just tight enough, it'd break through. Pain. A lifetime of pain, ripping free in blood-slick boneshards, black barbs and smouldering serrations.
Erupting through me, shredding this paltry vessel, more than a physical body could possibly hold. But something like this pain is not bound by physical constraints. The mainfestation of the pain unfolds like the blooming of a fractal flower, expanding impossibly- bone wings pinioned with rusted blades and charred rags unfurling and flexing around the thickening skeletal form beneath them.
The child of my psyche consumes me, just as I consume it- the pain and I are a closed loop, a Mobius Strip. The pain breaking loose creates more pain, which I feed back into the furnace, stoking the eruption still further.
In the end, the only thing that troubles me about this venting of vitriol is that, while it lessen the pressure some small bit, it is not a release. There has only ever been one release.