I am not only allowed and encouraged to speak my mind, I am compelled to; for to do anything else would be, in itself, a lie. I have done enough lying as a child and it is an action of which I wish to wash my hands. In fact, I’d like to cleanse my whole being, body and soul, of my past days on the primrose path.
I would peel off my skin, without asking Aslan for help, remove all of my organs and separate them from themselves, unhinge and detach my bones, one by one until the last stood alone. Then, painstakingly, lay all that remained in a great silver lined basin, carved from the centre of the moon. With all the eyes of the earth and the heavenly bodies as witnesses I would borrow all the moisture from the lakes, oceans, and seas to boil my remnants in the rampant flames at the centre of the sun.
Next I would beg my friends to assist me in stirring the concoction with a golden arrow, given from Apollo’s quiver, and answer their fears by telling that the scorching heat will heal those wounds on their hands and the rising vapors smooth the scars on their countenances that I have caused for all my unworthiness.
After all the water had evaporated away and returned to fall once more upon the vast and desolate plains of the earth I would gather my skin to weave and stitch it back into shape with Arachne’s loom and clever fingers. With the help of Munch’s brush and Rembrandt’s palette I would try to repaint my finger prints and apply the shades of life to my newly forming body. Methodically rebuilding my skeleton, pretending to be Tim Burton, I would braid new hair into my scalp with cloth finer than the Ming Dynasty’s precious silk, in the colors cast by the sun and moon in their rising and waning wee hours of the day.
Into the hollow spaces left I would replace my organs, all clean and strong, but leave the heart alone. With a drop of Emerson and a dash of Thoreau a new brain I would begin to grow; an attempt to recreate my soul, but only so much can be repaired when damage has been done to the psyche.
At last I would climb into my body and zip up the front, closing myself off from the prying eyes of the world; my new fingers tugging, and molding a face of familiar proportions, threading in the eyebrows, wrenching open the mouth searching for teeth, and eventually scraping clear the eyes to add lashes and a hint of the sea to the blind irises.
Now, nearly whole, I see my heart lying desolate. I would walk away from that which I can hardly claim to posses and leave the centre of my existence for someone who cares to discover in distress. Perhaps that which failed me will serve them better. I may have hidden my lying eyes, but a change of heart is difficult to grasp on ones own.
Doesn’t it look so serene in its death throes? As my heart withers, so my lies go.