I want to type today. Just start typing and stop only when i no longer need to. Its an urge. An itch. Like Edgar Freemantle in Duma key. Only, here the itch is on a phantom area inside me and it will subside only when i type. The words just have to come out. They are crying out for release from the cold recesses of my brain. I wonder if that is a valid phrase at all - cold recesses. I wonder how the inside of my brain feels like. I know someone who lives there. Thought.
Imagine Thought. Thought is a wizened old man. He has to be. It could be a wizened old lady, too. I dont want to sound sexist when i am not. There are moments when i am but this isnt one of them. Thought could be anybody. Man, woman, trans-sexual. But, for lucidity's sake lets use him and not a politically correct literary speedbump like him/her. I could have used her too. But i just chose to use him.
So, Thought. He is sitting in his creaking chair moving forward and back, rocking gently. Yes, he has a creaking chair. But why does it creak?, you ask. Well, he is old, isnt he? Old is an understatement. He is ancient. He was there even before i gave a place for him in my brain. He was there even before man gave a place for him in his brain. In fact, he was there even before the dinosaurs wondered what the flaming hot thing was that was hurtling toward them. He was there before life. He was floating in the vacuum watching the big bang happen. Then he dived in.
But right now, he is in my brain. I gave him a creaking chair there and he is sitting in it. All comfy. He is surrounded by a soft pink and grey walls that seem to fold over each other. This is his home. One of his several millions. My brain. I wonder if he should feel claustrophobic about his home. Layers and layers of folded insulation around him with rarely a chance to get out. I wonder if he should be going reeking mad sitting in there. Thought.
But it is he who wonders too isnt it. For he is thought. He thinks about himself and wonders if he might go reeking mad. But he assures himself that he wouldnt. He has things to do around there. He visits this vast land he calls his home. He explores. Each day he finds something new and assimilates it. He becomes stronger. Some days he is focussed when he knows what he is looking for and finds it. Some days, he just idles around. He waits for something to turn up. Something always turns up in that kingdom of pink goo. Still other days, he is just frenzied. He wants to find something but doesnt know what he is looking for.
I know him only vaguely. He is a shape shifter. An illusionist. He looks strong and clear one day while hazy and weak the other. Its a love hate relationship. Thought. That beatiful magician.
He sometimes whispers his secrets over to me. They are funny, scary, exciting, ecstatic, pleasurable and even weird. But when he whispers them over i am happy. I try and pen it down. He wants me to. But there are times when is a enraged. He screams at the top of his voice. I feel the insides of my brain shiver in the tremor of his anger. He fills me with hatred and rage. He becomes evil.