Every time I feel these damned migraines I start to lose touch with reality. Last night I felt the migraines were trying to tell me something – trying to remind me of something I had long forgotten.
I was lost in the darkness … hot water raining down my shoulders, dripping into my ears. I reached out as if I could feel the tension of the surface of the bubble of reality about to burst between my fingers. The pain was causing explosions of colors to race across my open eyes in the expanse of black before me.
Too long had I questioned if the migraines were related to my dreaming. A crushing signal of false pain for my mind to return back home. When the migraines come, I go back to sleep. I fall back in to the world which is more vibrant than reality – where the paradox of who I am can live in peace. The places, familiar. The people, inconsistent. Made from the same fiber of who I am and I am them as well, sometimes. What unity in a dream to see in everyone the potential for their existence to be only a reflection of my own, and in their eyes to see a glimmer of my soul.
Or horribly self-centered. The migraine ebbs for a second and I question again. That world cannot be reality for here I drown. Here the ache is real. But as the days wear on, does it not seem a fantasy to be so corporeal? What is power if it can only be exerted on the constraints of one’s own mentality?
In this reality I am only able to affect myself. Myself can impress its self physically upon matter, and I suppose in a way that’s power, in the way that a stale breeze listlessly lifting a curtain can remind you of a gale in the sea tattering masts with its will.
I hear the music. Whether my eyes are opened or closed. Whether I’m awake or asleep. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter.
I hear it and I see it no matter where I am. In my dreams, I see others sing it. I feel its vibrations in the bumps in the road. I watch people shuffle the notes in their papers on the train. I don’t know whether it’s comforting or painful. The connection I feel is overwhelming. When I hear it, I’m not alone. When I sing it, I’m forgetting something.
And yet continuing, the beat pounds like the blood through my veins in this migraine. It thrums through my body tempting me to sing, to go back to that forgetful place, so close to the edge of something better than this. Nothing is what I thought it was.
I’m not losing my mind, I’m just letting it wander where it pleases. It’s not my fault that I can’t catch up.
Originally written June 20th, 2014
Photo Credit: Jacek Szymański
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