The thudding of my heart is no drum. It is a watch – a clock – a time piece.
When it speeds up, the world moves faster. The archival footage that my brain takes appears to be incapable of likewise speeding. It cannot keep up. My eyes steadily churn out a film, meanwhile the time axis condenses, crunching up the bottom of my graph into wiggles and wobbles. The resulting memories are choppy, zipping from moment to moment.
Without my hearing it or feeling it, my heart fast forwards through my ruminations. I sit and stew on worries, folding them and unfolding them along well-worn crease lines. As I dramatize the shocking futures in Technicolour, my heart must be thudding along like a steam engine, because I can remember nothing from these times. They vanish. Hours upon hours of my life have been stolen by anxiety driven storytelling. I am a hundred years older for all the time that gets sucked into this worm hole.
What is it that wakes me from my reveries? I usually stare at walls or screens, with nothing passing my eyes that is visible to anyone else. What pops my motors back into place, and chases away the thief? Thank you, whatever you are out there. I’d be lying in a crypt by now were it not for you, and still the worries would be flashing across my imagination, over and over, repeated and exaggerated til the end of time.