My head is full of thoughts, of words that remain unsaid, of ideas that never get put into action. My lips can’t form them and my fingers stay paralyzed as if under attack. My thoughts are overwhelming and ever so consuming, so I act. I reach for tools and drill into my head then pull back.
The bright ideas come tumbling out, energized by the light and open space. Feelings rush out in a burst of blinding color.
Then everything stops.
A sludge begins to ooze out of the wound and slides down my face, sticky and black.
The ideas and feelings dance in the air around me.
It starts with one.
A bright idea is a little over zealous, it gets a bit too close.
It’s stuck in the sticky sludge. There’s a battle, a tug-of-war but the sludge is strong and the idea quickly succumbs. It’s not quickly forgotten among the hoards of brightness. Suddenly, ideas don’t seem so bright, and feelings are losing their color. The sludge is creeping onto every surface and multiplying by the second.
People come into the room with bright ideas and colorful feelings, sludge of their own. They leave with dulled senses, ideas, feelings. They never stay.
I look at the mess, I watch as people come in and out of the room. I’m alone. I reach for a shovel, a sponge, a tube anything to clean up the mess, anything that will transport this sludge, darkened ideas and feelings back inside my head. Where no one can see them. They can’t affect others, they can’t dull the radiance that shines inside of the people who visit my room.
So I sit and my thoughts are overwhelming and ever so consuming, but I don’t act. I sit, I stare, and I think.