Swelling

Some days, I wonder, if I took a peeler and started slicing away my skin, would I reveal the soft pink newborn inside me.  I feel like one of those russian dolls that always have a smaller one inside.  Each layer reveals a younger, freer me.  Could I peel each layer away, showing the younger mes?  Beyond the blood and flesh and bone, would the world accept it?  I feel like a  balloon with a thousand balloons inside me, like the cranks and whistles of my machinery are gummed up with the oil and sludge of living in an existence that doesn't appreciate the individual or the group, but rather the perception of the individual.  We live in the grease drippings off of the oil of our breathing, where each exhale fogs the world a little more, each inhale sucks in a swarm of shining fireflies.  It drives me insane.