Crazy

I think I am going crazy. There are said to be hundred billion neurons in the brain and above a trillion connections between those neurons. I feel them all. I feel them all. I feel every impulse, every ejection and opening of my synapses. I feel the vulnerabilities in the cleft as the currencies of my mind make the voyage between two islands. I feel every depolarization and hyperpolarization, incessant shocks that enable my insomnia. When I open my eyes, a hundred colonies of ants trod my occipital lobe. When I think deeply about a problem, little wisps of pink flame burn my frontal region. Music massages my right hemisphere and echoes in my temporal lobe infinitely. I feel my memories being consolidated in my hippocampus like an artist painting the same stroke repeatedly with a single degree of variation. I feel my hypothalamus frothing more than my mouth when I am hungry. Every breath and every pulse vibrates my medulla. The crippling fear of this hyper awareness manifests in only a grating grimace of my pons. The motion of my hands as the come to console me are indicted too by the testimony of too many voices shouting in my spinal cord. Even my solitude sags to the weight of industrial vehicles whose skid marks burn my ACC, raze my amygdala, brand my PFC. And when I experience trauma I feel that hurt portion of the brain grow brittle, like a child told they are unwanted, the after effects of impact and pain inexorable ocean waves that erode that resilience of my shore. I want it to end. But even the prospection of death douses each neurite with a million rain drops. Even hope unbearably heavy, glial cells erecting walls, consciousness colliding with itself, uncountable mountains that shift to tectonic rumination, to subconscious forces in the depths below the cerebrospinal sea. I am going crazy. I know I am. Because I can feel it forming, forming in my mind.