The two sides of a river are life and
death. The two sides of a coin are yes and no. The
two sides of a page are one and only. But the three
sides of my head torment me. My head with its three
faces, a trilogy of human suffering, a triptych seeing
everything but itself. Each side opens and closes to
its own rhythm; one is vexatious, another wails, the
third sleeps. Now one complains of itch while the other
two bicker, voices cutting a swathe as I move forward.
In private I know what I am, but in public I’m
nervous and front stands watch while left and right
constantly hover near the surface. Any word from me
might contain a leak while any attention from outside
carries the danger of a piercing contact, a greater
acknowledgement than I feel I can bear, like when the
voice of something – a piece of art, say – speaks
directly to your most hidden writhing, as if it were
visible, and you feel again the dread of its existence,
dismay at its continued survival, and then you fear
the worst: that it has in fact – that, as its
flesh, you have in fact – been fully visible
to everyone all along.