Something in the brain
At some point, she lifted her head, as if there was more air up there, and looked at the sun. The sun used to be warm. But now it burned.
She wasn’t feeling great.
To live, felt like moving in maple syrup. The bedsheet was poking her back, her breath was dry, and the toilet seat was warm. Everything was a bit messy, and wrong and dirty in their little ways. She was stubbing her toe three times a day, her hair was shit, and she was always late.
Her axis had shifted. She felt like she stood on a cliff with her back facing the abyss.
Once you were exposed to this numbness, and you spend enough time inside of it, you become familiar with the ways of stinging and crushing and whispering it does. You will know how it’s going to make you feel on day 3 and 48. How it won't let you get out of bed. And how it makes time stop, leaving you oily, and corrupt. How it plans ahead of you, how it creeps in and steals from you, how it grows.
You develop a sense of knowing. You will start to notice what’s working, and what to let go of. You will know when it will fade away and when to return.
When she felt this way, and this was almost a monthly occurrence, she took a walk. She would walk for hours on end, hoping the wind to calm her and to return home, feeling refreshed and reborn.
But it wasn’t working this time. And she knew it was supposed to. So there she was, panicking, trying to hold back tears in the street. Inhaling for this many seconds, holding it for this many, and exhaling for this many.
At some point, she lifted her head, as if there was more air up there, and looked at the sun. The sun used to be warm. But now it burned. It made her feel like she was being interrogated.
She went home. She made herself some coffee, and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to brew.
She thought about her brain. She closed her eyes, creating a bridge with her pupils, looking into her mind.
In the past, when she thought about her brain, she imagined a grand ballroom. The walls were covered with pictures of loved ones, the girl who gave her an eraser in elementary school, and the mustache of a man she saw on the street. The room was filled with important information, names, and birthdays of people she had yet to remove from her contact list, 1071, Nagasaki, and Donald Trump.
On the floor, there were numerous papers. So many that the ground was no longer visible. The papers were filled with words, sentences, poems, arguments, and laments. Whenever a thought passed, the papers would flutter like a field of dandelions, creating a wave on the floor.
Sometimes a thought would pause and grab a paper. Then lift its head and say, "Fly is a verb, not an animal." and continue walking.
Her thoughts were small and shapeless, yet still had a human-like presence. They were everywhere. They were doing push-ups, flying kites, shouting "WHAT THE FUCK?” through megaphones, furrowing their brows at the mirror, writing arguments on the shower cabin walls, and running around with knives.
The ballroom had one door. It was an old wooden door, piled up with various items. Some feeling oozed behind it, almost like a smell. No one went near it.
Only sometimes, a murmur would come behind the door. Cold, would rush through the door, like a fog, freezing everything it touched. The voice would whisper to them, echoing in the ballroom, melodic, sweet.
The murmur would grow stronger, day by day, it’s voice convincing, laughing.
That’s when she used to go for a walk. She would stand in the middle of the ballroom, put her hands on her hips, and remind herself, everyone, why that voice was locked away.
On evenings like these, she would call her mother, play loud music, go to the cinema, meet someone, and buy a plane ticket for the following months. She would clean up, make a dozen lists, and start something new.
On evenings like these, the murmur would scream. Its nails scratching the door, begging to be let go and heard.
Before, the following days of such evenings would pass wonderfully. Colors seemed brighter, the world appeared kinder. The most beautiful days of her life were always the days after nights like these.
Now, the coffee machine beeps. But no one turns it off. She isn’t here.
The ballroom is empty, dark. The door is half open. No sign of struggle.
If you listen closely, you can hear something. No longer begging. And it's getting closer.