I sit at my desk after one Xanax, three cups of karak, two cups of green tea, and three cigarettes, but my head still continues to hurt. All the substances at my disposal fail when confronted by this dull pain that rests like a thin film over my skull, and tugs inwards at my eye balls. Still, I sit adamant at my desk, for I have this compulsion to write something, and I know I have something to write about because I sense the heaviness in my head, and I can tell it apart from the heaviness of my headache. This heaviness comes from the mess of congealed thoughts and emotions somewhere in there, and they bounce around my mind with heavy thumps so that I can tell that they are present, but to tell them apart is an exercise in cognition of its own. Their ecstatic motion in my head resemble stray bats in an abandoned attic: I can still cook and clean in my house, entertain guests and myself, but the relentless thumping from the ceiling nevertheless makes me look up and grunt from time to time. The only thing left for me to do then is to brave the attic at a convenient time, and catch a bat, one after another, and set each of them free.
bats in my attic
bats in my attic
bats in my attic
I sit at my desk after one Xanax, three cups of karak, two cups of green tea, and three cigarettes, but my head still continues to hurt. All the substances at my disposal fail when confronted by this dull pain that rests like a thin film over my skull, and tugs inwards at my eye balls. Still, I sit adamant at my desk, for I have this compulsion to write something, and I know I have something to write about because I sense the heaviness in my head, and I can tell it apart from the heaviness of my headache. This heaviness comes from the mess of congealed thoughts and emotions somewhere in there, and they bounce around my mind with heavy thumps so that I can tell that they are present, but to tell them apart is an exercise in cognition of its own. Their ecstatic motion in my head resemble stray bats in an abandoned attic: I can still cook and clean in my house, entertain guests and myself, but the relentless thumping from the ceiling nevertheless makes me look up and grunt from time to time. The only thing left for me to do then is to brave the attic at a convenient time, and catch a bat, one after another, and set each of them free.