Does the skin absorb the smell of touch? What if the body is a collector of different hands and pain? Invisible scars on the surface and deep beneath. Do these same scars hurt when they last for many years or do they just spread like melanoma on the skin? Do we feel the circles of hell creating the maze deep within us, or are we the initiators of those circles? What causes us to crave for wrongdoings while rejecting the possibility of healing? We are ready to go far. We call on sins, fearing them. We change bodies by thinking of the old ones. How creepy we are when we consciously look at the other side of us in the mirror. Our fingers slide where the rough surface is immune to obstacles. We reach out and feel the scars as a warning, not hearing the heat in the voice, but the moaning in the breathing. Things change, we say. Conscious initiators of everything, we call ourselves unconscious. It is a sin to investigate. Do you like scars? Admit it to yourself. Do they make you a better person? Do they control your inner demons and urges? Some wounds strengthen us, and some make us vulnerable. That invisible scar that penetrates beneath every atom of our being and that scratches the surface of the skin beneath the first layer, the one that whispers to us in the respite between what we feel, as we release the last breath of non-life we think we breathe. But we can’t see anything because nirvana is the element that drives us, what makes our heart go out of the chamber, to put it once more in the palm of our hand and we realize that we are just surviving, day by day, scar by scar inside the paranoia of an endless scream. The combination of illusions and delusions can take us to a time capsule that has no way out. We list events and look for reasons for this or that event as if memories were a side-by-side encyclopedia. We close our eyes and touch our bodies, ours or someone else’s. Dry skin full of burns, secrets buried in every scar. We shut up and wait for them to ask us and then leave, leaving no answers, right or wrong. We are forever walking in fields full of moving mines. They shoot around us, shake our existence, people, mines. We slide between rationality and all that isn’t. We move, wanting to feel every thorn on earth, a stone, as we bounce off of it and fall on another. We want bruises, injuries, reasons. We drag ourselves through the darkness and forget the day as if we were dreaming bad dreams feeling pain. I run my fingertips through the flames, enjoying the scent of my skin that reminds me of my losses, never of other people’s, always to hell and defeat. I smell like a cremated corpse, that’s my smell, the smell of burning skin, I don’t reach people, they don’t touch me, it is impossible to give up pain, it is impossible not to pay attention to its power. And the pain fills us, whatever is understood. A strange chakra that suddenly breaks out and destroys all the bones. Crunching, I move my fingers to squeeze my hands. You only think about the ending, but it’s just beginning, the end is nowhere near. It’s underneath everything, it is the skeleton of our existence, our duration through the constant, cruel tearing of the flesh of the skin because it’s too tight for us, and we burn, and we stink, rot, and decay. Skin that smells like pain. Our opium, or poison? No choice. Our. Everything and nothing is. Everything is nothing as it turns to dust. Long after the cremation, I still exist. I look at myself, another remnant of gray and fire, submissive servant to his pain. Without touching, I squeeze myself and don’t feel what’s on the tips of my raised hands to make sense of something. I’m delusional and falling, but I stand erratically, as I scream and turn around, with my bones. I stand on them, break, and merge with them. I’m becoming part of the bottom. I’m becoming the bottom. I become stones and drag my burden as if that’s my making. I get into hypnosis and surrender to the cracks in my eyes, in the cavities of my mind. And as if my pupils were rolling as I penetrated the metal armor of thoughts. And I steal what I get, from those who leave a mark like mine, but it’s never the same. Neither am I. But am I the same? As a being or a ghost that haunts my spirit? My skin doesn’t fit, but it smells so good to me. I know by heart the anatomy of the body, every fold, and creation of its touch over burned skin. I absorb the humidity of what’s dripping under my eyelids. And I don’t know what it is. I know I like the way I burn inside. The electricity and the bitter-sweet taste of hysteria on my lips, they’re cracked. I’m cracking too. Only that smell remained in the air. And the atoms of my existence that break down in it.