Mindless (Short Story)
The space between the ears is but a scrambled noise. An incoherent muddle, a merger of tinnitus, headaches, confusion and voices of uncertainty. Cognition that was once so geared, focused, ambitious – now plagued by ambiguity and the silent chipping away of familiarity. The mind had become a foreigner to the rest of this organism. The eyes no longer recognised the limbs, the heart intoxicated and opting for pacifism. No more is there coherence between the parts of this body that once operated together so seamlessly – let alone with sounds from outside; now reduced to no more than meaningless frequencies. Niggling insignificant issues that would magnify as hours pass and become the cause of claustrophobic nights. Jests and trivialities involved in the metamorphosis to become the hands that keep trying to suffocate you when you’re alone in self-reflection. Passing comments that fixate into constant rehearsal conversations among ones self in their isolated space: a mere fantasy of how the real conversation should have been carried out but never did. Never would.
Social media bombarding with messages of how life should be aspired to, by others whose lives are not that way but made to seem so. Ideals painted on strangers of a celebrity cult as the ideals to strive towards, but many of which the wearers themselves are drowning in. Expectations to feed into the mirage because they feel compelled to. Coated in words like success and happiness but in reality just an exaggerated placebo effect.
The duvet that used to be a cue for comfort transforms to quicksand, a burden to get out of. Apathy. Dissociation. Hopelessness. It is more than habit when the obsessions toward self pity and insecurities become an addiction, when you are an active seeker of the bleak. The sacred mind is never afforded its silence any more. The questions never stopping internally– about what you could be. What you should be. How time is like everyone else that was close – once seemed inseparable but now strangers denying previous encounters.
Yet what does all this mean, when the blood tests and those that surround you would say all is fine, or when symptoms are suggestive of tablets as treatment. Would the mind come back as the one you once knew, that you dreamed and planned with? Can medicines help you be yourself or do they draw you further from it?
What does it mean when others would trade all they have to be in a position like yours, and your rational mind is trying desperately to explain how ludicrous your emotional self is being – leading the latter to delve deeper into its abyss?Ah, but this rational mind still has its own dialogue, floating between ascertaining that there is nothing wrong and something must be – seeing which way your body will sway. Time will still tick, life will still pass, and in the grander scheme it will mean near nothing. But right now, this is the only meaning there is.
Perhaps, in the indoctrination of being at war with ones self, trying to conquer and change, there is the underestimated consequence of rebellion. Unknowingly, in that which we destroy…. there is the chance we lose that which we cannot build again.