Conditioned to Defocus
7:14 pm
I'm sitting in the exact same spot I usually do at this time of night and all I can think about is how easy it is to condition the human brain. The reward centre sets into overdrive and everything feels like a good habit to take. I'm not even sure it's been a full week yet I'm already treating times and places like their mundane little existence have been injected with meaning to pump them up, make them more noticeable.
So on that same piece of wood I sit, time is rushing about me like he does usually at this hour, and I breathe out clouds that promise the same sort of rain they did the nights before. The sounds of comatose life aren't different, either; lights whine, wheels scratch, cold clicks. Some freshness squeezes through the chained window, letting in a questioning, silent sigh.
"Well, I don't know", I tell it.
And I'm honest. I don't.
Of all the things I don't know, not one is this desperate to get revealed. I've yearned for knowledge, for wisdom, but to untangle idiotic threads of emotion, that I never signed up for wanting. It's getting in my brain, it's disrupting any line of thought, it clouds the sight, and numbs focus. Even the Big Brother's dance looks like a dull documentary. Instead, deep in my skull, there is the lack, that little git of a parasite, munching away happily on my sanity.
Things that never happened flash before my eyes, unaware of the fact that they need my consent for their performance. I see a dark patch of hair, slowly curving into a neck that stretches out to become a pair of broad shoulders, held together by some textile material. I personally suspect cotton, but before I could get further in the analysis, the breath reaches my skin. A single sigh, starting out from unknown sources, levitates through a set of fictitious, red lips. It steals a heartstopping sound and carries it through to the closest haven it can find, my ear I can't see. I can feel my mouth going Gobi-dry the second the eerie, warm hands of the breath touch my unprotected skin. Waves and waves of thin winds sweep through my whole body, ordering every strand of hair into a stand-to. I shake, the breath continues. It makes hops with its aerial body through the hoops of skin within my earlobe and drops the treasured sound into the deep, dark pit of my mind. One more wave, and a standstill. I forget to breathe myself and am paralysed against rubbing my arm to get the bumpy skin to soften. My mouth forgets to produce material, and my tongue feels coated in dust, forgotten. The sound, as it drops into the mind, sweeps through the neurons' swirly spirals, down deep into my body and crushes my tiny, four-bedroom heart into a slack of useless slab of meat. The heart, it flutters, dying, as if it'd try to catch a breath. Before my eyes, the parts reassemble and swim out of view. I see a pair of black pearls, with brown wreaths of irises around them tight.
I'm telling them to stop, I'm asking, begging them to cease this unwanted show, but they laugh and point at themselves. And oh, I look and see and wish I would not. The night sky is tainted with the light of many lamps, tinting it orange and blurry with their liquid essence. But I see through them. I should not be able to, but I can see the dots of constellations, Aquarius pouring milky substance onto the black canvas, shiny chariots pulled by no starry-eyed horse, Venus, in her light disguise, blending in the crowd of a million suns. I see them all through the layer of that flame coloured blanket. A hand feels warm in my hand. Bitter taste of fluid bubbles rolls around on my tongue and my lips pulsate invisibly from a light pressure they had the fortune to endure not long ago. I feel presence vibrating with its subtle electricity on the whole of my right side. I feel light, incredibly light, as if the only thing keeping me from soaring up to join those silly gods with shiny eyes on the sky would be the gentle grip on my hand. A soft, fleeting brush of skin on my index finger sends my lips to a stretchy smile. I look on my right and for a moment, the inner drummer skips a hit on its instrument.
I wail, I weep, I try to tear myself from this violently forceful vision, but there's no use.
I find sounds crawling through the gap of the window. They whine and scratch and click. Sore muscles fumble over the stiff piece of wood they grew tired of. I put embers between my fingers and let out streams of rainclouds onto the table in front of me. You aren't here yet I'm talking to you. This is how bad you conditioned my brain.
So on that same piece of wood I sit, time is rushing about me like he does usually at this hour, and I breathe out clouds that promise the same sort of rain they did the nights before. The sounds of comatose life aren't different, either; lights whine, wheels scratch, cold clicks. Some freshness squeezes through the chained window, letting in a questioning, silent sigh.
"Well, I don't know", I tell it.
And I'm honest. I don't.
Of all the things I don't know, not one is this desperate to get revealed. I've yearned for knowledge, for wisdom, but to untangle idiotic threads of emotion, that I never signed up for wanting. It's getting in my brain, it's disrupting any line of thought, it clouds the sight, and numbs focus. Even the Big Brother's dance looks like a dull documentary. Instead, deep in my skull, there is the lack, that little git of a parasite, munching away happily on my sanity.
Things that never happened flash before my eyes, unaware of the fact that they need my consent for their performance. I see a dark patch of hair, slowly curving into a neck that stretches out to become a pair of broad shoulders, held together by some textile material. I personally suspect cotton, but before I could get further in the analysis, the breath reaches my skin. A single sigh, starting out from unknown sources, levitates through a set of fictitious, red lips. It steals a heartstopping sound and carries it through to the closest haven it can find, my ear I can't see. I can feel my mouth going Gobi-dry the second the eerie, warm hands of the breath touch my unprotected skin. Waves and waves of thin winds sweep through my whole body, ordering every strand of hair into a stand-to. I shake, the breath continues. It makes hops with its aerial body through the hoops of skin within my earlobe and drops the treasured sound into the deep, dark pit of my mind. One more wave, and a standstill. I forget to breathe myself and am paralysed against rubbing my arm to get the bumpy skin to soften. My mouth forgets to produce material, and my tongue feels coated in dust, forgotten. The sound, as it drops into the mind, sweeps through the neurons' swirly spirals, down deep into my body and crushes my tiny, four-bedroom heart into a slack of useless slab of meat. The heart, it flutters, dying, as if it'd try to catch a breath. Before my eyes, the parts reassemble and swim out of view. I see a pair of black pearls, with brown wreaths of irises around them tight.
I'm telling them to stop, I'm asking, begging them to cease this unwanted show, but they laugh and point at themselves. And oh, I look and see and wish I would not. The night sky is tainted with the light of many lamps, tinting it orange and blurry with their liquid essence. But I see through them. I should not be able to, but I can see the dots of constellations, Aquarius pouring milky substance onto the black canvas, shiny chariots pulled by no starry-eyed horse, Venus, in her light disguise, blending in the crowd of a million suns. I see them all through the layer of that flame coloured blanket. A hand feels warm in my hand. Bitter taste of fluid bubbles rolls around on my tongue and my lips pulsate invisibly from a light pressure they had the fortune to endure not long ago. I feel presence vibrating with its subtle electricity on the whole of my right side. I feel light, incredibly light, as if the only thing keeping me from soaring up to join those silly gods with shiny eyes on the sky would be the gentle grip on my hand. A soft, fleeting brush of skin on my index finger sends my lips to a stretchy smile. I look on my right and for a moment, the inner drummer skips a hit on its instrument.
I wail, I weep, I try to tear myself from this violently forceful vision, but there's no use.
I find sounds crawling through the gap of the window. They whine and scratch and click. Sore muscles fumble over the stiff piece of wood they grew tired of. I put embers between my fingers and let out streams of rainclouds onto the table in front of me. You aren't here yet I'm talking to you. This is how bad you conditioned my brain.
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