Image by Enrique Meseguer from PixabaySwitched On
That itch I couldn't scratch.
That exploratory moment between life and death.
That lazy neuron - an open book without a binding.
That switch that remained always on
reminding me of my inability to let it go.
That constant hum of the through-flow of thought, endless.
That low level thrum, omnipresent in its unavoidable chatter.
That pitter-patter of cognitive noise.
That deadly stochastic mess of the ego and the ID.
That leftover-meal brain, not quite sane, not quite in,
perpetually switched to a full-on cacophonous din.
That endless criticism, sermonizing rhetoric of self-hate.
That closed door, un-flicked switch.
That slammed gate.
