By Philip Malazarte
It’s a weird feeling. A feeling you can’t really describe. So many emotions mixed together into…something. It feels odd. Like there’s a hole inside. Like there’s something missing, but you can’t place it. It starts to bug the hell out of you. It feels like an itch you can’t scratch, and it’s always there. Hour after hour, day after day, until finally, you feel like you’d pull your own heart out of your chest if it would stop the itching. And then it spreads. Down to your stomach, up to your eyes, until you feel like your whole body is crawling with it. That indescribable feeling. You feel raw. Like a live wire left exposed. Like a rocky cliffside as waves bombard it with icy black water. Like bare skin exposed to the freezing cold. Yet every part of you functions the same as it did before. To the outside world, it looks as if nothing has changed. They can’t see that feeling raging inside of you. They can't see the pain you feel. It’s all hidden behind a mask so cleverly designed, so masterfully crafted, no one even thinks to ask what’s behind it. Yet sometimes you feel that this mask, this persona of your own making, should be sent to the deepest part of whatever hell is most convenient. You feel wronged. Betrayed. You feel like screaming your voice hoarse at the injustice of the world. Why can't you see I’m dying inside?!? But you realize it’s your own fault. You were too good at your job. That persona is just too hard to see through, that wall is just too hard to crack. Now no one can see you writhing on the damp floor. No one can hear your broken sobs. No one is there to ease the pain, and you know why? Because you couldn’t say one simple word. Help.