A hot, hot thought in a fever pitch brain
A hot, hot thought from a fever pitch brain squeezes out like steaming sh-t and plops -- splat -- in the center of polite dinner conversation. Different strains and flows of discussion ebb to a stop, cutlery clinks in the remaining silence. There are murmurs and darted glances, awkward throat clearing while someone tries to figure out what to say next. You look at me from across the table apprehensive yet battle ready. I imagine I return your gaze with wide-eyed terror and disbelief.
I am having an episode in the middle of your fancy corporate dinner party
My brain is a frying pan sizzling each wild thought into choatic perfection.
I need to cool down.
I try to take a sip of wine, but my hands won't stop shaking.
Droplets of red bloom on the immaculate white table cloth.
The patches expand as the color seeps into the fabric, eating up all the purity it touches.
These stains can never be washed out.
The lady to my left asks, "What did you say?".
What I just said is of no consequence now -
the thought burned into oblivion as it escaped my lips;
what's really important is that I tell her the world tilted off its axis 2.4 billion years ago and we are all only the remnants of her remaining dreams.
I am tilted off my axis and I wish I were dreaming.
I am sure the man to my right needs to know we are all demons; that God created Earth as a haven for the damned who still long for heaven.
I am a terrible person and I will never find peace.
I look into your eyes and feel a desperate desire to reassure you, to inform you that every person you meet is simply a reincarnation of one of your past lives: the mailman, my mother, your boss. You were once them all, and they have returned to you.
I wish I could control everyone, every interaction, and every situation.
I wish I could control myself.
Instead, I mumble "excuse me," and stumble in the direction of the bathroom.
The conversation volume rises like wave behind me and I am overtaken.