Empty Vessels (thoughts)

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I'm not my body and my body isn’t me. I know this. I know this because I am my mind and my thoughts and my actions and my conciseness. I'm not my body. My body is just something I frequently control and something I take care of. Like a dog. I take care of it, I feed it, I water it, I bathe it, I make sure it gets its daily exercise. Except, when my body gets hurt in any way, I'm hurt too. But I only feel the pain because the body sends the message to my brain, tell me I'm hurting in a specific body part. So I go through life, with this unnecessary weight, like carrying two backpacks, one filled with necessities of the long journey ahead, and the other with rocks and stones, growing heavier and heavier, until the carrier has to rip the pack off his shoulders to survive—until the carrier snaps. Everyone is a new stone to carry. They try to help and take the weight of the bag, but there’s too many bodies and too many burdens, so they scrabble and grope at my arms and shoulders and chest, all my useless limbs, clawing and gripping and yanking, trying to take my problem and curse, all the while filling my pack with more and more rocks, one after the other, until the legs under me give out. The empty vessels around me make me sick. They act lively and fun and nice, but I know their default. It’s the same as mine and this body I have. Because at the end of the day, it’s the same story with the same old ending. It’s a song played with different instruments, but even if it sounds different, it’s the same lyrics. Same old song, played over and over and over again. At night the moon shines. At breakfast the trees rustle. During the day the heart in this chest beats. I don’t hear or feel it, but I know it does. The oxygen we take for granted goes in and out of these lungs, creating carbon dioxide, without any thought or effort. Our bodies do this mindlessly, like chewing your nails. Songs sound different to each person. Views look different to each body. Food never tastes just like how we remember. It’s always disappointment or surprise.

A stone is added to the weight on my shoulders.