Sometimes, I get lost going from point A to—
Where was I?
A thousand trains of thought zip past a single stationary point, and my eyes flit over each individual one. I find myself more concerned with the shape of my thumbnail— Good God, why is that side so flat when the other is round— than with the task I’ve already lost sight of. Wearing Overthinking like a designer backpack, hunched like Quasimodo— and there goes my brain again singing I am deformed and I am ugly.
Why do I do this? Why are thoughts nothing more than vapors that slip through my fingers, droplets of water that slide down my hydrophobic body as I penguin through another Arctic Sea? If I focus on one shooting star overhead, if I try and hold it still in my hand— like a blue-haired anime boy named Howl— will it eat my heart out or stay with me?
No, neither. It will twist and deform itself into a metaphysical monster, grappling for another crevice in my body to climb like I’m nothing more than plastic rocks on a fake wall. Then, the monster will make its home in the cavern that is my head. It’s a tight fit— who will scoot over to make room: Yesterday’s Regrets or Tomorrow’s Anxiety’s? When I’m ready for that shooting star thought, I’ll reach down into Samara’s well and pray that A Mother’s Guilt doesn’t tear my arm from its socket.
How am I ever supposed to concentrate when my thoughts are a labyrinth and David Bowie is orchestrating a musical number between my breaths? Do you expect me to be able to remember anything when time has gone all wibbly wobbly and nothing/everything makes sense?
I know there’s a name for this feeling of chasing my own words around in circles, a dog chasing its tail. For the way my feet and fingers and hands and body need to always be moving; the perpetual motion of my mind shoved down into my body before it overflows into SCREAMS.
I know there’s a name for this.
But that thought must’ve taken the one a.m. train to Phoenix. I guess I’ll see you when you get back. Have a nice trip.