Here’s another piece from my not-so psychologically well days. Those were not-so physically well days too. I read this, and I wonder how far I was from a stroke. My anxiety did have a sound at times, but this reads–and the sensation as I recall it–as if the stress was piled so deeply inside of me that I was about to burst to let it escape. Could I have been somehow closer to God? I’m sure I don’t want to know how close I was. Rough times, kids; don’t try this at home. Love ya.
My anxiety sounds like ping-pong balls, millions of billions of ping-pong balls bounding and bouncing up and down the hallways of my mind. The hallways are deep to infinity or at least long enough for a Kubrick movie.
Some of the hallway floors are made of that shiny cement, the kind that invariably makes someone say, “I bet you could bust your ass on this shit when it’s wet.”
Down some of the hallways, the walls are made of rough-hewn cinderblocks, unpainted and perfect for shredding carrots. Off of these walls, the bounce of the balls sounds grumbly and sluggish.
Down other hallways, the walls are of wood-grain paneling. Off of these, the balls sound like a boy just learning to click really good with his tongue. Click.
Some of the floors are hardwood, to infinity.
The number of hallways is as uncountable as the number of ping-pong balls, and every possible flooring and siding is present, to ensure that every possible sound is produced.
If I could see the ping-pong balls, I know they’d be glowing, like the orb that hangs in front of my eyes.
I feel itchy, like I have bugs all over me.
Could I somehow be closer to God?