RELEASE...RELEASE...RELEASE...

Sometimes, my thoughts clatter around like damaged robots trying to fix a bigger, more damaged robot. Always building/rebuilding. Occasionally they'll stick an arm joint back in a shoulder, prompting sensible, rational thoughts. Other times, they'll put a leg in the head socket, creating nonsense ideas. Sensible is good, but nonsense tends to be more creative. Maybe when they've finally finished pottering around they'll create some deranged robot with arms for legs and heads for hands, and as it destroys my mental Tokyo it'll vomit fiercely creative gamma breath. Buildings and people will melt under sentences like "The nights in the marital bed were long and lonely in the months after Frank died, and they remained just as long and lonely when he
returned." and "General Ken Nyler’s torso sprouted from the wooden floor of his office like a grotesque plant, arms held up like branches with hands forming claws." I would welcome a death caused by those words. Not so much "Better clean the bathroom" or "Should I have said that?" or any number of mundane, peripheral thoughts and notions that really shouldn't take up more time than their initial creation. But those, robots, they're always moving things about. Instead of taking time crafting thoughts about how a wife would react to her dead husband returning to life, or how a normal cop could stop a supervillain, it's these latter thoughts that hold the most sway more often these days. And quite frankly, it's getting boring. So I try mental exercises, see if I can corral the robots. A woman's voice floats through my head, accompanied by a steady 'wom wom wom wom'. "Tense your toes" she says. "Then release. Feel the pressure lifting." She then tells me to tense every other part of my body, leading up to my head. Always release, always spread stress and worry and all the rest of it as it floats away and up into the ether. It's good stuff, to be honest, but the trouble is I always fall asleep before she reaches my head, so I can never get those bothersome robots sorted. Maybe if I keep listening, keep releasing, I'll hear her voice, hear the pulsing synth, and the robots will stop - just for a moment - and think about what they're doing. Maybe.