I am become the migraine!
There is a small tiny heavy metal bullet ping pong ball being bounced by a little green elf sitting inside the artery in my temple in my skull. This little green elf, like me, cannot shut up and I am astounded by how much it, I, talk about nothing my god
I am become the ping pong ball.
(Which sounds much less impressive, come to think of it)
It’s true, I love in an echo chamber, which is possibly the only thing worse than living in an echo chamber. But what is life without loving?!
(peaceful, says the cynic. grey and mundane wails a pretentious beatnik.
I swear I’m never going to read Kerouac if I can fucking help it.)
(There are no windows in an echo chamber, though chamber music tends to sound lovely in here.)
“What does a migraine feel like?” he asks, thoughtfully, and I debate punching him as hard as I can just above his delicate ear, clipping it a little, and saying, just as thoughtfully “Like that, but forever until forever ends except it doesn’t because it’s forever.”
Maybe it’ll get worse, I think to myself, despairing slightly.
(Maybe it will, I think to myself, hoping viciously.)
when I finally fell into sleep, it was from the kind of tiredness to which even pain cannot lay siege! over which claim dominion!
(Maybe I don’t want peace or happiness, just an invulnerable fatigue to tire me into sleep.)
I woke up this morning bleary eyed, but without ping pong balls.