Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these thoughts. They’ll explode inside of my head and they’ll infect every cell in my body. Like viruses they divide uncontrollably, contaminating every cell and replicating inside of them, simply to burst out again in mini supernova explosions, scattering and polluting and destroying as they tear their way through my body. I can feel them burn. I can feel them scorch at my skin, scalding the flesh until it peels away from the layers of muscle, until my own skin runs away from me. And it is as if someone’s branding me constantly, branding these words into the flesh, from the inside, not the outside. So they’re part of me, but separate. Alien, but human. They scratch away and they are part of me, fighting to get out but longing to stay inside, to breed and populate and manipulate me.
I think that if thoughts had souls, their only aim would be to get out. Get out. Get out and cause riots. They would be the living dead girls, the ones who creep out of the woodwork at night to join the party with their smudged eyeliner eyes and gothic style, retreating at the first glimpse of the dawn’s early light, hiding away until the lunar beams light up their underworld yet again. Dangerous things, thoughts. Imagine what a thought could do, spreading like an airborne virus on a southern wind. Imagine what they could do, how they could spread and infect humanity, on and on and on. Reaching out across a world of opportunity. Because that’s the thing, you see: First it lies on the surface. Just an idea. A virgin idea lying idle in the brain. A question. A probing question. I’ll barely give it any attention. But when it begins to sink down, layer by layer, I’ll notice it. I’ll ponder it during your daydream hours.. think about it walking down the sidewalk or even just sitting in my room with my fucking coffee in hand. Adding bits of evidence and connecting it to other ideas. So, I lie awake at night. I blame it on insomnia and down some pills, but then the pills will become inadequate, and I’ll allow the thought to grow. I toss and turn and flip the pillow over to get the cold side. It will become clearer and clearer inside of my head. It will become a part of me, something I admire, something which gives meaning to some defunct part of my life. It will become me, and that’s when it gets dangerous. What if that idea was as simple as: these people are the cause of all of this. Or: could I get away with murder? Perhaps: life isn’t for me. Those are the kinds of ideas that cause a pacifist to blow up a public community centre. The kinds of ideas that dictators cling to. Those are the kinds of ideas that destroy worlds.
They make me different. I guess people -moronic people, cause you’d have to be pretty moronic to say it- would say that I had some form of disorder, a problem, a terrible, incurable disease. Because, in this world, this fucked up world, being different is a curse. We can’t stand what we don’t understand, therefore we push it away from us in order to hide from the fact that we lack the very understanding to make sense of something very real and therefore very dangerous to us. We victimize the difference, and the people who host these differences. We’re scared. We’re so afraid of what we don’t know that we make up stories to scare the shit out of our own children, passing on that fear like an infectious disease, thoughts transferring from generation to generation. This fucking disgusting world in which we live makes me sick sometimes...
Anyway, these thoughts of mine. They’re not weird. Not really bad, either. Well, depending on the perspective you look at it. Sometimes they are hurled at me out of the dark. Just questions, ya know? Things that my mind cooks up. I questioned the monster under the stairs. I questioned every single fucking fairy tale. I questioned spaceman stories. And now, I question the way our world is. Why people are the way they are. What the fuck we’re doing here. So they’re not really scary or weird or mental. They’re just, in the eyes of society, too much for a young lady to be thinking about. Because, probably, in society’s eyes, I should be training up for my future husband, to be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the living room and an acrobat in bed. Not hiding away my vigilante streak.
Personally, it’s nothing to me. I was simply born with the universe crushed into my head. There is no disorder, no disease. There are only thoughts, millions of them, jostling for space inside of my skull. The reason I did so many things. I’m not an odd person. I don’t have dreams of living with cats in a seaside mansion in Wales, wearing thick wooly socks and dancing alone on cold winter nights to Joy Division, with nothing but the sound of the waves and Ian Curtis’s lonely melodies to keep me company; nor do I desire any Romantic period composer, wearing glasses for no apparent reason, daydreaming about dreary rainy spells in Northern France. I am a girl. Just a girl. A girl with a universe inside of her head. And I think, perhaps, that one day I will burst. This ticking hand grenade inside of me will detonate, scattering fragments of me flesh and bone everywhere, painting the walls with rich, red blood, leaving behind cold meat and dust. But for now, I’m left alone. Left with this fucking riot inside of my head.
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