The Ultimate Multi-Taskers
No, two things aren’t going on concurrently. Its three and four and five, fighting for the same head space. And in that claustrophobic finite space the noise is overwhelming.
Chaos, waxed lyrical, tugs at the neurones in my brain. Like an intricate dance it stretches my tendons, beautifully, it moves through my body; my arms and legs a sinuous liquid, gushing with a force I can’t control. But bodies weren’t made to take shapes of containers. It is cramp, and my limbs are bent in places that weren’t meant to be. So my bones start to grow at perpendicular angles and my inelastic bands of fibrous tissue. . . begin. . . to. . . snap.
My cells have rearranged— my hands are my feet, and my eyes are ears that can neither see nor hear— all flowing into the same head space. Every force is triggering the wrong reaction: my fists move in tandem with this whine in my chest; the ringing in my ears are harmonies to that rhythmic pounding in my head; those words tickling my vocal chords itches my heart. Direction has become an irrelevant concept because everywhere I look, the mess I see is all the same. A disarray of fetid liquid, stuck in a box, left to fester and rot. You see, tangent to my sanity is a normal that exists entirely on an imaginary plane. So in the real world, a push is no different from a pull. In the real world, no matter where I move, my position always stay the same. Air… What I need is air. And tangible space. I need warm hands to ground me. And a voice to guide me out of this box… Because my cells need to rearrange.
Each new anchor joins the rusted sunken ones in this tiny, tiny box. The ripples on the surface are negligible. Tearing through the liquid in its conquest to be buried deep; to rest at the bottom, dormant, where it’s too far down for the sunlight to reach. By the laws of nature that dictates all that shall come to pass, these foreign anchors and this box will, for certain, disintegrate.
But I doubt it would be in my time.