Cradling my head in my hands at my desk, I inch my fingertips around to the temples, massaging. I sometimes wonder what would happen if i could open up my head, pressing my fingers tightly on either side and pushing up ever so slightly, swinging it up and back, tipping it back to rest on the hinges that would lie buried beneath my thick hair. Instead of a mess of flesh and blood I imagine inside a tangle of color and light, and of thoughts, packed in tightly and giving off sparks of electricity as they rub excitedly against each other. They would have no gravity of their own, their weight inferred by my body. Exposed to the outside air would they be like balloons, floating up in a parade of escaping color? Would I just helplessly grasp at their strings, not even knowing what I was trying to hold on to, but acutely aware that my insides were on display — not just one fleeting thought that would have never escaped through my lips, but the whole of all of my thoughts. All those parts that I would rather keep hidden or leave forgotten, just ascending up, up, up and away, leaving me empty and inexorably heavier without them because our gravity is reciprocal, lending them my weight in exchange for their ability to lift my head nearer to the clouds.