Today, I am not so well: my body seemed to be gyrating incessantly within as my innumerable nerves appear to have left their static state. My mind does not fare that well either, as the cacophony of sounds—words and earworms of music—begin to beat louder and louder notwithstanding all my attempts to keep myself at peace. My whole surroundings, as though beaten and worn-out, has come alive with incessant droning of what might appear to be litanies about how shorn or perhaps, apoplectic the world has become. All these, happening in my brain, has encumbered my need for that particular silence; and even though my environs can even be that enclosed, with nary a whoosh or tweet that may be heard, still I desire to be fed that silence which, for me, should be inescapable.
However, the opposite happens.
And So I Eat Despite My Mangled Mind
I am henceforth deluged by all those ramblings up my brain that know no respite: I am beaten black-and-blue by all the auditory psychedelia, overwhelming me to my core. Eventually these become means by which I deign pull out one of those gastronomic treats I might behold in my presence; and with the temptation of Bacchanalian decadence, I put two of my fingers onto that which should now satisfy my cravings, take a small pinch of that (which may either be bread, viand, fruit, or anything else filling), commencing withal all that should make my heart and mind go wild with my desires for eating with pride (and comfort). This should go on and on during a regular day where my mind could not grow drowsy despite exhaustion from all the “mind-talk”; and little would I know I have emptied the totality of my platter. True enough, since it would take eons even for the mind to press itself, force itself, to give way for peace, it is inevitable that my indulgence towards satiating my tastebuds would not let up. Indeed: I have become a victim to yet another round of beguilement, that I have not yet been filled because of those curious and unabated mind-talk making the rounds of my brain.
I am doomed.
I then take another bite, then another sip; another bite, another sip; another bite until I could no longer sip those juices of either mango or pineapple for food has taken a toll on me. Yet, mishap of mishaps, my brain still churns out lengthy soliloquies, colloquies albeit unintelligible until I drown in those in the midst of my dining. I then twist and turn in a stupor—I have become exhausted and I could no longer maintain the stamina for food. But this stubborn mind!! It still recites its lengthy litanies in a convoluted fashion, I daresay mockery could not even permeate the thickness of this mind-speak. It still retains its momentum—“there is it seems yes i don’t know but when I know I could but no matter yes I believe it is so when I do not but wait there’s more but yes because there is something within that oh no matter…”
The list goes on and on.
The Continuum of My Constant Mind-Talk
Words have become disjunct from each other, without a certain stream of thought. To be more in jest about this, it seems as though they have metamorphosed into a sort of free radical soup where said free radicals are free to roam as they please, attaching themselves to what might make sense up to a certain point and detach themselves when everything has been accounted for. This makes my life even more choleric as it is usually, with a notorious intake of food complicating situations further. It is as if I could be satisfied with food if my mind could not keep itself still which, in retrospect, makes it more arduous. Nothing is solved in spite or even despite munching on all sorts of things as this only amounts to my discontent. Would I then be deemed broken? Oh yes, for I could not even keep up with my mind, thus resorting to food to supposedly keep those legions of rapid thoughts at bay (or so I thought). I am definitely in shambles—I do not know where and how to situate myself in as much as inexorable fatigue could definitely take its toll on me.
In this regard all I could think of at present is on how self control could assume its primordial role in the midst of a depressive and anxiety-riddled self (I am not well as I write this). If all else fails, self-gratification will be the only norm, all in the name of covering up that gaping hole drilled into my being by nothing less than my mental health related concerns. Of course, this should not come to pass and I am trying my very best not to fall into multifarious traps. For the time being, all I could do is think, notwithstanding all those words pouring themselves forth on all sides within my battered mind, incoherent and garbled. This, I believe, is such a gargantuan task that needs uncanny means to strategize (sans any opportunity to be tempted by food).
Woe is me. I need to get well.