The Boil

Paroles de « The Boil »

It’s a strange prison, my mind, a jail where chaos rules, and thought, like a wild beast, thrashes, growls, and crashes against the invisible walls of its own making. Every day, every moment, a flood of insignificant thoughts—or perhaps ones of dreadful importance—rises like a dark tide, drowning anything in me that longs for a scrap of order or peace.

Ah’m no mesmerised by the brilliance of these thoughts but by ma own incapability tae control them, tae pin them doon, tae turn them intae somethin’ coherent. They bubble up inside me like a pot oan the verge of boilin’ o’er, a volcano about tae blow, and yet, nothin’ escapes. Nae a word. Nae a sentence. Just this dull, relentless rumble.

Ah often ask masel: how dae ye let it oot? Whit crack, whit gap could let this pressure escape, the force that’s tearin’ me apart? But the answer’s aye just oot o’ reach, as if ma ain mind, in its endless torment, refuses tae gie me even a hint o’ relief.

It’s dead easy, in these moments, tae sink intae self-loathin’, tae see nuthin’ but the darkness in whit Ah am, whit Ah dae—or, mair often, don’t dae. Every hesitation, every decision no tae act, becomes another burden, another chain Ah shackle tae masel, all under the daft excuse o’ whit folk might think, those whispers o’ “whit’ll they say?”

But them, aye them—whit dae they ken about me, really? Nuthin’. Yet their imagined judgement, the glower o’ their unreal gaze, freezes me solid. Ah stop masel fae actin’, fae bein’, as if their opinion—or the idea Ah huv o’ it—matters mair than ma ain wants, ma ain existence.

And so, the boilin’ continues. It hus nae start, nae end, just this sly, creepin’ churn, a tide that niver goes oot. Maybe, yin day, Ah’ll find the key tae break this loop. Or maybe no. Maybe Ah’m doomed tae watch, powerless, this storm ragin’ inside me, a lifelong spectator tae ma ain misery.