Brain Soup

I am a writer.

I swear.

I promise myself: I am a writer!

But my words are stuck.

I don’t think in monologue.

I think in abstract ideas without real words.

I think in colours.

Synesthesia and neurodivergence on paper hints at delicately built structures supporting the colours that move like swirling, shimmering mist inside my brain.

No.

Never have I just one isolated, traceable thought — against my will, every one flutters by on erratic wings, overwhelmed by so many others. Could you keep your eye trained on a single monarch butterfly in a migrating swarm?

My thoughts are strobe lights — echoing, pounding, deep vibrations that reverberate off the walls of my skull in primary colours.

They float like soft, hazy clouds that wistfully blur the sky with creamy lavender, glittering magenta, electric peach, and yearning forget-me-not blue. So full of stories, beckoning me to tell them. My earnest hand strains its tendons, returning with nothing to show for the desperation with which I extended my reach.

They pool at the top of a dark room, iron shades of smoke billowing out of my ears, daring me to latch onto them with a foolish grip. The cloud mocks me from above, choking me with my own sheer volume of intangibility.

I know so badly what I want to say. What I need to say. What I have to say or else I might die.

But none of the words to say it.

My thoughts are a glossy, sticky honey — a glistening liquid with flecks of sunlight, flowing leisurely towards the small opening of its glass container. They are an infuriating, sluggish tar — a languid sludge rolling across the backroads carved into my brain.

Syrup or grease, they ooze with unrivalled lethargy, clogging the channels in which they travel before ever becoming.

But I am a writer, I promise myself.

I am.

I swear.

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