The whiteness and blackness of my mind: ECHOES UNDER SKIN

Sometimes, a person does not scream; the scream remains trapped within, it festers, and then, it begins to sprout. First, in a small, dark corner of the mind. Then, amidst one’s memories. Next, behind the eyes. Until one day, you discover that something has emerged from within you—and you can no longer tell whether it is a fungus, a memory, a fear, or a scream that, for years, never had the chance to be heard. Perhaps these fungi are the remnants of all those things we told ourselves: "It’s nothing." All the tears we swallowed. All the rage we politely buried. All the times we lied, saying, "I’m fine," simply so that no one would ask what had truly befallen us. The mind never truly discards anything. What we suppress does not vanish; instead, it grows from the darkest recesses of our being.