Madness

Each day I move through the world as if I belonged in it, presenting my best face to those who watch.

I move stiffly across the dance floor, aping some formalized movement - arms held high, head tilted, I pirouette, bow and nod - all to the glistening eyes peering out through little holes in smooth white masks, feverishly consuming each gesture.

And who are they, these watchers?

I don't know.

Everbody. Nobody. God.

Or maybe its just me.

But as I perform my marionette little movements (mimicking what I don't even know) a feral little creature emerges from somewhere just behind me, invisible and sharp toothed, scurries up my back and then, chattering and gibbering, buries its fangs deep in my neck.

Its happening again.

I want to scream - tear at it, flail my arms and beat the vicious little mother f*cker off my back!

Instead, I keep dancing - smile and nod to those around - trying my best to maintain a smooth, bland and serene look on my face.

And I don't say anything.

That would be telling.