Having my soul peeled,

as if it were a fruit, wrapped in some heavy layers of unnatural rind (supposed to be a metaphor, different from the one of the mask, excessively used, even if not without reason), now, I feel uneasy, like I have lost something that used to keep me on the ground, far away from the things I longed for, that I have always felt as unreachable. Actual trauma was involved, and it all happened slowly, not in the way human skin was removed by tormenters, in the Middle Ages (that would be better called "Dark", dark they were, underneath the shallow veil of purity thrown upon the symbols that governed them, that time), yet, no pain coming out of the flesh could make any soul go above. Day after day, (hour after hour, minute after minute, second after second or stitch after stitch-my time, all mine, I measure it by the pace of the needle, penetrating the cheap linen, not by itself, of course, my hands guiding it, with no sense of control, not looking to achieve a perfection standard I have set in my brain, but to cover all the drawn surface-I haven't drawn anything; I'm trying to fit into the pattern made by some old machine, doing something I'm struggling to do in real life, not on a given surface), my soul's getting better, vintage pains included in the healing process, to remind me of what I've been going trough and to keep me aware of the symptoms of newly designed pains, entering my nude soul in an instant or by eroding it constantly.
Why does this body of mine have to reflect everything going on deeper and above itself? My face doesn't allow me to wear the mask of soul pain all the time, it needs smiles to keep on moving its muscles-and all the outside big grin contaminates the inside, that gives away its comforting pain, ready for a new inner sunrise. How come my weakened body feels more powerful sensations, without stimuli? (What stimulates the body is the soul, anyway, to express it directly, avoiding the pressure of a longer phrase).
For some outsiders, I'm just relaxing, music around me, in my ears, in my brain. My hands typing something there, not a confession, but an undressed image (I'm able to retouch it, to change its proportions. It's a question of colours, whether I assume sincerity or not).