Have you ever spent so much time in your own mind that you came to know every crevice, every line, every twist and turn that adorns your brain? Because I sure tried. I roamed in there, day and night for almost 18 years, lost but not having quite lost it yet. Unlike what most would think, the mind is not a maze, it is not complicated. It is an empty room where you… exist. You have the choice to stand, sit or lie down but no real place to lean or rest on. Personally, I prefer to lie down and stare at the inside of my eyelids while the Body breathes and moves and struggles, using it’s lungs, it’s veins and it’s weathered skin to absorb life and knowledge, exhaling exhaustion tinted with wonder.
Here, where I started as a fumbling sphere of conflict and naivety, and through the resonance of the I’s and why’s and you’s and who’s; I expanded. I grew ears, eyes, limbs, but was never blessed with a mouth, although my voice was louder than I could at times bare. As the echo of my thoughts washed over me in waves, the fluidity of this unstable space created patterns and paths that I could barely imagine. With my newly created limbs I grasped at them, desperately craving a permanence that I knew would prove itself hopeless. A permanence that, when away from these frightening moments of desperation and loneliness, would become my static prison.
Don’t get me wrong, this place is my paradise. Much like Mother Nature, the mind’s frightening dimensions and overwhelming power to both create and destroy, are the roots to my love for it and my need to treasure and care for it. This empty room, where things don’t come or go, where things are, yet are not, I have stayed. Whether I float in a non-sea, lounge on a not quite field, or sift my fingers through a vast inexistent desert. This shield, this cloak, this unlikely wonderland had become my very own home. I was my very own home.
Slowly, surely, I used this space up while keeping it empty. The voices that ricochet off the non-walls and the outside that filters through my ever expanding self, so I can almost imagine the feeling of touching the non-walls around me with my fingertips. I crammed every air particle with stories, words, worlds from Carroll, the Grimm Brothers, King, Frost, Bukowski, Dante, Shakespeare, Murakami, Cohen, E. E. Cummings, Faulkner, Mo Yan. The names endless, the vocabulary spanning at least 3 of the 7 seas. Eventually, my collection of non-books was larger than my mind itself and it spilled out into the Body, through the mouth, the ears and the palms of its hands, bleeding through the skin. Yearning to be heard to the point that it seeped through the seams and tore down every barrier and suddenly, the mind wasn’t big enough for me anymore.
It is always wise to spend time with yourself, but now that I am armed with real books and real words and a voice itching to be heard, my fingers wanting to touch the real edges of existence. To simply be, without fear of not being cannot happen by hiding in the mind.