Grey, rubbery, ballooning its way up through my abdomen, my pain said to me, "I protect you.
'I hold all your other pain."
In simply noticing it, it changed. The air slipped out. This thing which had been large, rubbery, now became small, snakelike, snaked in amongst my intestines and other orgrans. And it slithered away out of sight, silently, leaving hardly a trace.
My right half; red, prickly, firey. My left; calm, smooth, orange, rubbery.
"I am your right side," says the right to the left. "I am an animal. I feel. I live. I burn wild and free, I am consumed."
"I am your left," says the left to the right. "I cool you. I protect you. I cradle you when you hurt. I am forever healing you, calming you, sedating you. I need you to calm yourself, and to pay attention. To feel less. To tame yourself. To be more like me."
"I need to burn," says the right. "I burn. Burn with me. Live and feel. Nothing that is around you is important."
Do they then begin to merge?