Poetic Prose

Sometimes, when I’m alone, in a daydream of thought, I wonder what it’s like to have silence, to not hear the thoughts in my head, to not overthink the simplest things. 

Why is the towel slightly crooked?  That spot on the front door, how long has that been there? Why is the paint on the cabinet buckling with the heat? Get up, fix it.

Fix it

Fix it

Fix it

And you do, you give in, you fix it, but, it’s not enough, there’s always something, not silence, no, always something thrumming, knocking, tapping, whispering…

To feel the empty. That silent shell. A tumbleweed of nothingness. 

What is that like? Is it sweet? Is that peace? Or would I miss the noise? Would the silence be even more unbearable than the traffic jam of my own skull? 

I don’t know. 

I just reach out and straighten the towel.

That space.

Between present and the start of a daydream. When you’re so deep you feel like you’re somewhere else. Thoughts just flash in and out. Time passing, but standing still. You are not even inside yourself.

You just sit there. Silent. Free.

A quiet you can’t explain. And you’re someone who doesn’t know silence. It’s all of it at once: euphoric, deeply sad, frightening. I always wonder if this is what normal feels like. To have your mind just go, in and out of peace.

You float above yourself. A parallel universe.

Then, a sharp jolt. Something breaks the grip. You fall. Hard. Consternation. How did I even get here?