Tristan Robert Lange

The Laughing Matter

pounding

pulsating

pressure

pumping profusely

each belligerent beat

bleeding out

the fierce flow

forcing me

upward

its warm inside

wet,

i reach

grab

find a cord,

a stem,

to pull myself up

out

of

t

h

e

tremors,

terror griping tightly,

voices of laughter echo

but I can’t find the joke

the humor is lost

on me

i

climb

h

i

g

h

e

r

up into labyrinthine corridors,

the grayness matters

less than its

components:

all colors

mixed with

the absence of all color

the voices

paired with

incandescent images

humiliating and horrifying,

numerical problems propagating

swirling

2 x 5 =

4 + 4 = 124/2=

(6+7)*4/2=

like a twister.

the adrenaline twitches me.

i squirm and climb

upward

to

t

h

e

light.

the problems follow,

the answers elude.

I reach the peak

and lift my

weight

over

the e

d

g

e .

the light ahead calls

and I cannot resist it,

though i also

dont

want

to

see,

for I know what awaits.

the closer it draws,

the orbs growing over me

as i pass through the white

institutional

i now know the source

of the disembodied voices

laughing;

though,

now that i can see

through my own eyes,

the voices are embodied

by my peers,

by supposed friends

by my teachers.

the joke has been found.

I am the clown

everyone

laughs

at.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.