Wednesday, August 05, 2009

My Brain is Clogged.

I'm sorry, but my brain is clogged. I don't know how, and I don't know why. Is this hard to understand?

Let me explain. I have a brain... and it's clogged. It's like water and a drain. The faucet can be turned on and off alright, but it drips. Thoughts constantly fill up my head. Except that when I write, it's like letting those thoughts out of my head and into cyberspace or wherever and everything is good. Right now, I feel like it's clogged. I can't seem to get my thoughts in order, at least thoughts other than the thoughts I'm writing now. But consider this the hairball or whatever that is clogging my brain. I have to address the clogging to get things flowing again. I want to write. I want my thoughts to flow down from my mind, though my fingers and onto the internet or wherever they go, but I'm stuck.

I have a brain... and it's clogged. I don't really know why or how. I am trying to unclog it, but it seems that even when I pull a bit out, it doesn't seem to help. I want to write my thoughts on the book of Jude, and from the book of Colossians. I want to write poetry about someone falling in love. I want to write a story about a man on a quest to find the truth about his childhood because he can't remember. Existence started for him two weeks ago and he doesn't know why. He has special powers. Everything he touches gets better. Old torn paper binds itself, faded or smeared writing is restored. Old people he shakes hands with grow a few years yonger. Children with owies heal under his hands. He starts to doubt if he's human. Oh... and he doesn't speak Englis. He doesn't speak at all. He smiles sometimes, but mostly, he's afraid. He doens't know why he's different, but he knows he is. He doesn't understand that this gift he has is a blessing. A gift without the proper knowledge cannot be applied properly. He's looking for answers. He can help other people, but no one can help him.

I have a brain... and it's clogged. I can feel the thoughts in my head, the pressure against my skull. I'm startingto feel tired, but I don't want to sleep. I want to clear my head. I want to release my thoughts. I close my eyes and see a man. Almost six feet tall. Well dressed. Pin striped suit. Hat. Tossing a quarter... flipping a quarter and whisling. His tie moves. Not the tie itself, but the design. It moves the screen of a video game. It's a racing game. 8-bit. His face is clean shaven, his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. He's waiting for something. Someone. A woman. A woman with curls in her hair and a swing in her step. She's wearing a blue dress with sparkles. Red lipstick, brown eyes. Also whisling. Same tune. I don't recognize it. Maybe something by Ella Fitzgerald. He smiles. Gold tooth. That's bad. He's a bad guy. Gold teeth are alyways symbolize bad guys. She's chewing gum now. No more whistling. They walk off together, arms around each other's waist. I think she's bad too. Too confident around that kinda man to be a good girl. They just feel bad to me.

I see a bunny, eating grass, wrinkling its nose. The sun is rising, the dew sparkles on the blades of grass in the meadow. There is an old oak tree, standing alone in the center of the meadow. It's branches reaches out as if to shade and shelter as much as possible. It's the grandfather tree. Many birds and animals rely on it for protection, food, and shelter.

There's a boy, eating a sandwich in the desert. It's not really a desert, but a city, but he feels alone. He imagines it being a desert that he has to cross everyday. There's no bus to take him home from school. It's a long walk. He feels alone. He packs an extra sandwich and eats it on the corner of Marshall Ave and Skylar Way. He sits upon a newspaper box. 75 cents per copy. 1.25 for the Sunday edition. He always reads the headlines and ponders them as he eats. Today, he thinks about the growing murder rate in the city. He wishes he really were in the desert. It would be safer without all these people around. It's peanut butter and jelly. The sandwich. He finishes and hops off, crosses the street. A man smiles at him. He has a gold tooth. The boy is frightened and runs the rest of the way home.

I see me sleeping. I roll in my sleep. I hide my face with my blanket, but it's too short and my feet stick out.

Not yet, but soon.


Clogged said...

Hi, I have similar kinds of thoughts sometimes and at times I am able to network things so much in mind and form a logical understanding about something that isn't there. But most of the times, its scary because I can completely fool myself with reality and illusion because half of the time I am living in my head.

However, most of the time my brain feels clogged and I cant have clear thoughts. Its like thoughts have to find its way through to surface. I don't know, very frustrating at times.

Have you find a solution to it? I am thinking, exercising will work.

Jonathan Dow said...

Keeping this blog helps. Writing whatever comes to mind just to get it out so I can relieve some tension. I call it Literary Vomit.