An Existential Dilema

My usual strategy of ignoring a problem, a strategy I call the ostrich solution, doesn’t seem to have paid off. The hessian sack at the back of my wardrobe has not left by its own volition, instead, it just sits there working on enhancing its rank, pervasive smell. It really smells, a unique but definitely most unpleasant, fetid stench that reaches beyond the perimeter of my flat and into the corridor outside. Just the other side of my door, whilst they have been waiting for the elevator, I have heard them muttering, comments about a foul smell, and judgments discussed as to who the strange people are who call for me at all sorts perverse times at night. Those smug, self-righteous bastards don’t have an errant sack to deal with.

The pressure is mounting as even I have come to appreciate the threat to health this sack poses. I think to myself that if they are so put out by the smell why don’t they come inside and help me out. But something inside gives me a cerebral slap alerting me to the fact that to do such a thing could, I put myself at ease by saying to myself “I must never expose my sack to any of the other residents’.

I sit on the bed looking into the wardrobe’s darkest corner, still not sure what to do, should I call the police before dealing with it, what if it’s a bomb, does the fact that it is in my wardrobe make it entirely my responsibility, even though I have no recollection how it got there? And what type of bomb smells like this? These are all very good questions which I don’t know the answers to and at this moment I lack the ability to cognitively reason through.

I decide against calling the police, if there is anything in the sack that’s illegal then it being inside my wardrobe would be construed as incriminating, but this all hinges on knowing the contents of the sack. I thought my anxiety had peaked thirty minutes ago, instead it continues to ramp itself up to hitherto unfelt heights, my adrenal glands are shredding themselves, my endocrine system is taking over, I’m just a sack of hormones that are mostly telling me to run, but oddly there’s also a hint of masturbation in them, which I decide is inappropriate, for now. My skin prickles as my pores start to open allowing me to sweat fear. The base of my skull thumps as my heart pounds blood at an ever increasing pressure around my body and a high pitched almost ultra-sonic whistle pierces continually through my ear drums, and meanwhile all I can do is stare at the sack. At an immeasurable velocity propels me down this dead end, there are no options, there’s no way out, fate says I must face the sack and whatever it contains. All my movements have slowed, they are now controlled at a subconscious level. It’s one of those moments when the clocks seem to melt, and all the air has been sucked out of the room. I know what I must do but I am repulsed at the thought of doing it, just observing, disassociating myself from this inevitable and necessary act. I appear to float over to the wardrobe, reach in and pull out the sack. I raise the sack until it is positioned at eye level, my outstretched arm parallel to the floor. The bag has an ominous feel to it, the weight of the object inside the bag somehow feels familiar, an image flashes through my mind too quickly to make out what it is. Whatever it was gives me a final shot of Adrenalin, my hand reaches in. I see it briefly before my peripheral vision collapses in on itself and I fall into darkness.

I feel pain, hurt, my head, shoulder, knee, malleolus, and any other bony protrusion that has been lying on the hard floor for an indeterminable length of time are aching with pain. Judging from the amount of stiffness in my joints I guess that the time that has elapsed has not been insignificant. The side of my head feels heavy and sore where it must have bounced off of the ceramic tiled floor. A bewildering minute passes. My mind races, hurrying, trying to get nowhere before it’s too late. Slowly I pick my head up from off of the floor, and try to comprehend it, to understand the implications, the consequences, the ramifications of holding my own severed head. The implausibility of this situation deserves that I look closely at it, my head , closely inspecting it, my severed head. I feel confused, neurons blindly and randomly blast across muted synapses, in hope of finding some sense to this nonsensical, impossible eventuality. I try to establish the facts; this is a head, a head was in the sack, not just a head but what appears to be my own head. The most probable explanation I can find suggests that this is my head and I am observing myself hold my head through some kind of remote, out of body experience. To test this theory I stumble to the bathroom and look in the mirror. There I stand complete with my own head, looking at myself holding, what still looks to be my own head. I try to rationalize these most irrational circumstances and how it would be best for me to progress best from here. The problem is I have my severed head in my room. My severed head is starting to smell and must be disposed of. If I can dispose of my head I’ll be in the clear. I think to myself is any of this illegal? Is there anything wrong with disposing of what is my own head, all be an extra one. For a brief second I contemplate the police, thinking that it would be a simple formality that they would see the situation as being a simple case of duplicate head in a bag. I consider the alternative, reasoning that they might just as well see me as a man with a severed head in a bag, assuming I have murdered a twin I don’t have has more logic to it than believing that a man with a head could be carrying around his own head, in a bag. No the police were definitely not an option to help me in this situation. In fact all their police instincts would rapidly conclude that I am a head severing psycho of a twin brother. Actually I’m not shocked that there was a head in the sack, although the fact that it is mine I confess caught me by surprise. I take both my heads into the bathroom to scrutinize them. Oddly enough the first thing I notice is that the situation presents the opportunity for me to appreciate just how bald I am at the back of my head, while interesting this realization offers me little encouragement for resolving this situation. Every hair, every blemish and every blocked pore is identical, it can only be my head.

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