If you could see what I see
It’s different in here
My brain wants to see the world dark and bleak
And colours almost hurt
Because the happiness seems artificial.
“This diet pill will make you feel amazing”
“Give the gift of love this Christmas (i mean this £500 computer)”
If you could see what I see
It’s so pointless
The walls are fucking leeching you say. The landlady comes upstairs, peers into the dark corner. You see it, the monster lurking, dripping its darkness down the wall. She gives you a concerned look, pats your arm and leaves because the rent is what matters. You look up at the corner, see a pair of eyes staring back.
Tea is important. You make some tea, sit down with a sigh, and look away from the corner. The darkness is growing bigger. It’s in your peripheral at all times in this tiny bloody flat. The eyes follow you as you go about your morning routine, and as you leave for work your final sight is of the ever-prominent eyes. Coming home is terrifying, opening the door to see the cold pupils again. One thing you can’t work out is if they’re benign. Sometimes you feel they’ve become almost a comfort, other times you look up and see the determination of a killer.
Weeks pass. You can now see a face in the corner, the eyes protruding further into the room than ever. It has become apparent that the monster is slowly pushing itself into reality. It stares at you, menacingly and murderously, but always with some sense of familiarity. Finally you see a mouth, bloated earthworm lips slightly parted, and you figure it can speak.
“What are you?” you whisper, not because you don’t know the answer but because the prospect of hearing it from the monster itself is just… beautiful? The big, evil eyes meet with yours, and the mouth moves but the voice is your own.
I love and hate this crazy place
Seeds filling my mouth so I can’t speak
Everything I hear is weeds
And I’m a withering tree desperate for sunlight
So the seeds will grow and I can breathe again
Memories. They’re like a being gagged with a silk rag. The contact is pleasant, but then they trip you up and hold you suspended from the ankles, capturing you in the past even as you reach desperately forwards. It’s like dying from the inside out, choking on your lifeline. Something beautiful turned hideous and cruel.
A tingling in a far off nerve, the connection of a sound, a taste, an image. Suddenly, an explosion. The feeling is growing, and now it bends, away from being a thought of a thought and into that part of the brain that makes it real. Language limits the thought, but doesn’t obliterate it, and suddenly phrases are crashing together with dictionary definitions and quotes from the dead and this glowing thread of enlightenment is growing with each passing second. A deep breath, and then the thought pours out through chapped lips or calloused fingers onto paper or touchscreen phones. Some of the ideas vibrate through the air until they pass the gateway into another brain, and the chain reaction is set: colours burst as life allows for the thought to be mulled over by other brains; improved, denied, but there in the back of a mind forever.