Spin

It’s hysteria of the brain. A twisting, fractured need to move, to spin, because maybe if you spin fast enough your thoughts will align again.

The world is a kaleidoscopic blur: bright colors and impact and pain. That familiar feeling of your brain slapping up against the inside of your skull, flesh slapping against walls, pain racing up nerves.

You’re supposed to hug yourself when this happens, curl up with cuffs and binding sleeves hanging in fractal thoughts and drugged acquiescence until the need to move dies. It’s what’s good for you. But it doesn’t feel as right, doesn’t make as much sense as when you spin, when suddenly it all lines up, when you see the world in crystalline perfection and everything makes sense.

So you spin until you stop until the spirit catches you and you fall down, your spine a backward arc over the turquoise chair and you stare up at the leftover spinning and watch everything align until, for a moment, you transcend this body, this hysterical brain and see.