Brain freeze

Unlike the onset of the ice-cream induced effect, this brain freeze did not come suddenly or with any searing pain. Instead, it took two heart-wrenching years for it to finally settle in the recesses of his brain. It was a eureka moment when he realized that this agonizing process has begun. He was relieved to know that it was not an illness or that he was about to die. The atrophy that occurred was merely figurative. It was quite ironic that the thing (imagination!) that gave him life was also the thing taking it away.
He knew from the get-go that there would be nothing he could do (nothing he could change) to stop it.  He spent a few days mourning the loss of creativity and the connection he once had with his inner self. He regretted the time he wasted on anything but getting all those thoughts out. Over a stale cup of coffee (and a stale brain), he mulled over all the things he could have done with his former abilities. He teared up as he remembered his former abilities to conjure words from thin air and forge them into beautiful sentences.
They, those who read them, would shiver with emotion, scratch their heads, take a pause to breathe, raise their heads to the heavens and plead. Divine supplication was often uttered as they realized that twist or went through that turn.
He sighed. Oh, how he wasted those precious years of excess to produce so meagerly like an old miser.
And so he let go of all the hopes, dreams and aspirations. Of all the loves, the fails and the losses. Of all the lives created and all the whispers (unsaid, neglected and left to perish). Of all the ones he would have gotten to know and the ones he knew. Of all the pain, agony and labor of creation. Of all the life within him and the one without him.
He waited, like an insomniac waits for a boring film to end (coveting and fearing the last credits).
"Sweet salvation, won't you come to me?"
A birthday. Nice wishes. Smiling faces. Worlds apart, they are. Presents, cupcakes and candles. Gifts, cards and cups. Love, kisses and hugs.
"And to a hundred more."
He could barely think of five more years of this existence, let alone a hundred. It felt more like a curse. In his mind, the wisher became an old hag with drooping breasts and wild hair. A witch, she was, of the Shakespearean kind. The ones who used spit, pee and bleed to make spells, incantations and curses. The ones who gutted chickens and goats (real witches, not the TV kind).
There, another year has passed with an unresponsive mind.
"I am a thief."
He was stealing air, love and supplies from the living. The ones who needed it. A robber of souls, lives and aspirations. He fell from grace, but they were still feeding him Ambrosia. Like a baby, unable to speak (enough!). He wished for the thought police to come and arrest him.
"Do you know how fast your brain was going, sir? It wasn't."
He feared the nights. They all slept, snored and quieted down. Yet, suddenly the morning yawns transformed into nightly energy. Nothing to do, nothing to say. Left alone with a thoughtless brain. Sleep escapes the empty space. It echoes and resounds, hollow like his soul. From a flimsy mind, a divine conversation escapes. An apology, a plea, a prayer and a promise. Divine rejection hurts as well. He remembers the unrequited love of his foolish youth and sighs.
There will be no salvation tonight. Like each and every night. A reverse zombie; he roams the night eating his own brain instead.
The drowsiness multiplies every second until the first glimmer of light shines through. A cat purring by his side. It yawns and stretches, effects of restful sleep. It calls for tuna chunks and loving cuddles. He willingly obeys. The sun now stares him in the face, defying him to stay awake.
He falls, again, with broken limbs and a worn out body. A dead brain ushers him into the listless world of truncated dreams. Running, always running. Out of breath, unable to see, unable to hear, unable to rest. There was nothing sweet, succulent or swimmingly delicious within the dreamworld. His lovers have left it and his enemies have remained. Torture and pain; hate and heat, sweat and tears. Screams, he screams.
Drenched in sweat, he emerges again. The night begins again. His brain is dead again. The words perished again. Tears flow again. Rage ebbs again. The hate swells again.  
Life begins again. The end escapes (him) again.


Sally Abou Bakr said…
I liked the fact that the conversation is one sided. All the talk is in his brain. I wonder if the thought police really existed, it would be a shocker, as our thoughts are very private:)

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