S P A C E D O U T

On some days, my heart is overwhelmed and my thoughts are a blur. For no particular reason. My body goes to auto-pilot mode on such days. I can ride from home to work without noticing a thing. I can sit through the day at my desk without getting a single task done.

S PA C E D OUT. Such an apt word. Not just because I am mentally absent from earth (and therefore "spaced"), but also because my mind itself looks like a black oblivion, with thoughts, like fiery red celestial particles of dust/rocks, swirling around in it.

I take to writing on such days. An empty word document in front of me is like therapy. Like some force that can calm the thoughts that are in constant motion within my head. They slow down, coming forward to show themselves, word after word, in front of my mind's eye. I type each word I see, putting them down, not knowing what would come next. As the words line up next to each other on the blank page, I begin to see what they mean. Clarity. The inexplicable, slowly making progress through the foggy clouds of confusion, until they become understandable.

On some days, though, what I type doesn't convey a deep or grave message. It just puts words on the page. On some days, like this.