Man as a child is a satellite trying to refine its’ orbit around the Mother planet, takes on all the information he can, some good, some bad, learns to interact. As he evolves into complexity, he experiences a few collisions before crashing into smithereens during his teens, fragments falling scattered, unable to take the cracks of uncertainty, to be absorbed by the larger planet of Society once independent of Mother.

He then requires a social ecosystem with his growing needs and reduces gradually (and herein gains the complexity and cliché of) an island, connected to this continent or that, and is sold and mined dry if found to be carrying early childhood resources such as creativity, cunning, undiscerning thighs or financial inheritance, before bursting out one final time and fading out into the vacuum.

I am under-slept and over-stressed. Anaemic face, malabsorbing guts. Albeit unlike Ganymede, have no more energy or desire to orbit a figure like Jupiter.

As my Jupiter alas, is still fat and gaseous, atmosphere of Methane, consuming resources, yet producing nothing but waste.

This Jupiter erupted horizontally from a drug which frailly kept her brain in one piece like a fat sausage held by a net of rope in the sun. I grew in Jupiter’s womb, and lived in a dark, unventilated hole where the electricity is sometimes on.

I was Ganymede of Galileo, not of Zeus, protected by a battered skin in pits from disease of the body and glacier scars dragging across the skin from disease of the mind.

Scratch the insect bite until you break skin; the itch has now gone. The insect has not. You will wake up again, unremarkable memories from the previous day purged and censored, senses recalibrated to do it all again. The insect has bitten you once more during the night and you have scratched in your sleep.
Is there anything conscious about this reaction?