What It’s Like to Live Inside My Head
I live in my head.
It’s mostly alright here I guess.
There’s room enough for a lot of thinking, though it has gotten messy. See, there aren’t any shelves or furniture. Nowhere to store away thoughts neatly. No sofa to sit down and relax.
Other places I’ve visited have little assortments like “My favorite things” or “Important: don’t forget!” or even “People I love that love me.” While they generally try their best to keep memories organized, mine float around and bump into each other like in zero-gravity.
I can’t begin to sort them, because as soon as I catch one and remember it, an association is pushing it away. I try to hold it down and just as readily a new one appears. So I hold that down too. Before long it’s more than I can handle. I know there are boxes to keep space cleared, and only get out what you need; I’ve tried it before, but many don’t fit or I can’t keep them contained (or I trip on some words and they all come out at once).
Here is another problem - while retaining those pesky older thoughts I can’t look them over to categorize any. Then they slip away and hide while I’m busy dealing with all the tangents approaching. It can take some time to find what I’m looking for, if I even manage to before my time runs out.
Everyone says they have the same amount of time each day but when they compare theirs, I’m absent mine — did I ever really have a way to measure what I spent? I feel bad about taking so much… I keep using it up and needing more.
In each corner there are speakers always playing something. Right now they’re switching between a Japanese cover of Say So by Doja Cat and All Star by Smash Mouth. Which is distracting yes, but it can be fun never knowing what will play next or even simultaneously. It can get really annoying when the record breaks and keeps repeating. What’s ironic is if I need a break, and get a break, I can’t get a break.
That’s the living room.
Up the stairs is a room filled with pictures. Every wall is covered with images and the space itself shifts and bends into scenery. There’s a trail of random papers floating up here, and sometimes they’re visualized, sometimes they just turn right around and head back down.
The other rooms are… less exciting. Just maintenance and stuff… nothing particularly interesting. Bland. Boring. No, really. I’ll just show you to the front door and you’ll be on your way. Thanks for visiting.
You’re still here?
Well, I guess I could describe some of the other rooms.
One room is always dark. I won’t tell you what’s in it, because I’m not sure. It’s just black. I avoid that room if possible. There are times I can’t avoid it though. I wake up lying in the middle. I see the door and try to run to it, but when I reach it, I find myself in the opposite corner.
It’s full of fear. It’s cold and claustrophobic. The sounds echo and get louder and the thoughts that come in change color. As they float they darken, freeze and crack. The pieces fall and clang painfully loud against the metallic floor, and then black ink oozes from the edges. I pick them up and desperately try to put them together. I struggle to read a few sentences and distinguish the context.
The more I try to fix it the more stained my hands get. The pieces are glass now. The door has closed and it’s so dark I can’t see my hands. I feel them though — I cut my arms in my desperate attempts to reassemble the broken thought.
I never know how I end up here or how I get out. One day it’s a few seconds, others I don’t leave. The pieces build up so it’s worse every time. All the memories I pick up or hold directly after end up blotched and ruined.
Moving on.
While there isn’t any furniture or shelves, there are trash bins. Lots. It takes all night to empty them out, and I’m really supposed to do that. Instead, I rummage through them. It’s on accident of course — a really bad habit. The corner of some thought will look interesting, so I’ll grab it. Turns out it’s associated to a dozen other “trash” snippets from the day before. Now it’s in my hands and I find myself in the living room emptying the whole bin out. It’s really interesting what I can find.
My mind isn’t exactly a refuge, it just is. I guess there are storms, and having a roof overhead is nice. Besides that, it’s just a place to live. To hang out. Something else entirely when I can’t avoid it. Relatively remote and easy to miss. I rarely leave anyway — I’m bad with directions and I’m afraid I won’t find my way back. It can be described as shabby, yet sincere.
Mostly alright.
Signed,
Ísa
Submission from The Bouncy Brain Community
Come as you are, take what you need. I’ll be here.
