I must stay away from any form of communication when the monthly visit from hell has been delayed thanks to all the festive junk that have been finding home in nooks of the body, and the associated chemicals not only stagnate, but decompose within the head, raising unbearable emotional stink.
The mind craves for release of the tension in words, but the will stops me from hitting the publish button.
The mind craves for a hysterical, inhuman scream that would emerge from the pit of the stomach and shake the building. The will stops me from the indignity.
The mind craves for the body to double up on the floor and moan at the invisible hand squeezing the innards. The will stops me from the exhibitionism of private pain.
The mind craves for solitude. The will fills me with guilt for the craving.
The mind craves for a shoulder to wail upon. The will stops the show of vulnerability.
The mind craves for sharp reprimands to loved ones for not being what I want them to be right now. The will stops me from causing irreparable damage.
The mind craves for an end to the mental chatter. The will, for once, agrees.
Which of the two, in each case, would win? In a minute, the will would have lost on the first point. I hope it wins in the others.