Microwaving My Brain
I headed downstairs, even though everything was happening upstairs and nothing was downstairs. I just wanted nothing for awhile.
My nothing wasn’t mundane nor bleak. Although slightly numbing — it numbed me in the best way. As if I’d stuck my brain in a microwave.
The microwave is such a gentle place. In this simulation, with the warmth of a shot-out sun, I find myself spinning into a loving state. This ride in the cuisine carnival, I’ll take it any day. I never want it to stop. But it does eventually and I stay at the base of the ride all night, slumped over the control panel. Still, I can’t find a reason to let myself start it again.
Present moment — every word’s meaning has become increasingly subjective. The entirety of my vocabulary is made up in a tongue that’s not my own. Everything I say means just the opposite.
It’s 12 am and I’m being fried to pieces with oil, a touch of cheap, powdered garlic, and way too much paprika.
And my radiating brain and I — we are still speaking but just in a different language.
All baked at 420 degrees Fahrenheit.
