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This is my tiebreaker entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. It was an open topic.
Come closer. I'd like to share a secret.
When I fall silent, seemingly lost in thought, I am probably wandering through the cluttered hallways of my mindhouse. Depending on how far in I've gone, I may take longer to respond. Here, I'll show you.
Step inside this first door, to the side of the entrance hallway. Whew! Busy, right? Inside this bright, colorful room, you'll see visual representations of all the tasks, errands, and requests that compete for my attention. A digitized envelope bearing wings flies by: an unanswered email. Whizzing clocks line the walls, along with a jumbled calendar, overfilled and pulsing. If you look carefully, the calendar contains images relating to the waiting tasks, such as a pool deck for my aqua fitness classes, and a trumpet in a car to indicate picking my son up from band practice. Don't spend too much time in here, or you'll get dizzy. We'll see it again on the way out, anyway. It's pretty hard to avoid.
Not much further down the hallway, follow me into this damp, cave-like space. Here live my worries. They thrive on discomfort. Right in front of us, an increasingly blob-like simulacrum of myself, rolling in pain as she becomes more and more unfit and immobile. She keeps demanding to be seen, especially every time I stub my toe or catch a cold. Dangling from the ceiling like stalactites, there's a dripping assemblage of minor fears: like sleeping through my alarm clock, forgetting someone's name, and failing to complete a task from the previous room. You probably shouldn't venture into the darker caverns; they contain more primal fears like the death of loved ones, major losses, and even the impairment of my mind. Step carefully as you exit, so as not to drag any of these denizens back with you.
Next, we'll visit one of the loudest rooms, dedicated to news and events. Try not to trip on the headlines, jetting like tickertape from the never-ending news apparatus in the center. This spacious place is abuzz with more than headlines. You might think those are TVs on the walls, but look closer. They're giant smartphone screens, zoomed into bulletins from friends and family, or sometimes a fragment of an article I read somewhere. Wish I could remember where, because it's interesting enough to tell other people about it. Please note: these are only memories of the news items, so their veracity may be even more in question than the original newsflashes.
You may be able to hear the next room from the hallway. The creativity suite lures you in with atmospheric music, cinnamon and chocolate aromas, softly suffused sunlight from the wide-open windows. Hang out here on the comfy cushions and reach for the ideas as they waft by in a sea of filmy colors. Look. The one you've got in your hand. It looks a bit like a house, right? I caught the same one right before I started this piece. Hold it in the sunlight and let it grow. Don't worry. If you have to leave it here while you visit another room, you can easily find it again when you return. Just don't wait too long, or it will start to fade again.
If I had it to do over, I'd never have built this next room. Why, you ask? You'll see. Mind your head on the doorway: it's a little too small to walk in normally. You don't want to hear how many times I've hit my head on this archway and kicked myself. Regrets roll, slither, and seep throughout this dingy room. Though every surface is grimed with an unpleasant combination of dust and grease, you can see the circular path I've worn clean. These regrets vary in size and importance: from a misspoken word, plinking like a rolling marble; to a missed opportunity, shriveled and mummified on a shelf. I'd rather you didn't notice how many of these memories have been misshapen by my noxious habit of holding them close to my chest. I really wish I knew how to quit them.
Still with me? I'll confess, I'm impressed. We've traversed through some unpleasant territory, but I promise I've saved the best for last. In this room, suffused with golden light, you'll see nothing but delights. Replaying on a loop, you'll see holograms of happy moments. If you look closely, you'll recognize the same person in many of them: growing steadily over the years but always with his warm brown eyes. My son, standing on wobbly legs, or enjoying a soft pretzel as we sit on a sun-soaked lawn. My son, wearing his glasses for the first time, or swimming across the pool in water beams of light. My son, growing steadily, but still the same kind, laugh-filled spirit. Definitely the best thing I've ever done. Go ahead and tour this room. You'll see other loops, containing people I've helped. An aqua fitness student thanking me for making her mobile again. Or a stranger I helped yesterday by pointing out that her headlights weren't on in the darkening twilight. In this space, you'll also encounter satisfying scents, sounds, and feelings, with walls the brilliant hues of sunset, with soft grass underfoot, with a very purring of the air. Feel free to linger as long as you'd like.
Now perhaps you can understand how, sometimes, I get a bit lost in here. If you're perceptive, you might be able to guess which room I'm visiting by the expression on my face: a micro-expression of despair, or a distinct upturn of the mouth, a light in the eyes. Maybe you'll hear me hum a little tune, or mumble briefly to myself, as if sending away a bad thought. I've been told my face is expressive enough that these inner journeys often show through.
Thanks for coming along with me on the tour. I hope you've enjoyed it. No, you don't need to walk all the way back. Simply open your eyes.
A miniature carnival, part of a train set. A blurry umbrella ride rotates on the left side of the photo, while a red swing ride dominates the right side. The background is dotted with blurry white Christmas lights, with the indistinct green and gray shape of a hill rising in the middle distance.
Come closer. I'd like to share a secret.
When I fall silent, seemingly lost in thought, I am probably wandering through the cluttered hallways of my mindhouse. Depending on how far in I've gone, I may take longer to respond. Here, I'll show you.
Step inside this first door, to the side of the entrance hallway. Whew! Busy, right? Inside this bright, colorful room, you'll see visual representations of all the tasks, errands, and requests that compete for my attention. A digitized envelope bearing wings flies by: an unanswered email. Whizzing clocks line the walls, along with a jumbled calendar, overfilled and pulsing. If you look carefully, the calendar contains images relating to the waiting tasks, such as a pool deck for my aqua fitness classes, and a trumpet in a car to indicate picking my son up from band practice. Don't spend too much time in here, or you'll get dizzy. We'll see it again on the way out, anyway. It's pretty hard to avoid.
Not much further down the hallway, follow me into this damp, cave-like space. Here live my worries. They thrive on discomfort. Right in front of us, an increasingly blob-like simulacrum of myself, rolling in pain as she becomes more and more unfit and immobile. She keeps demanding to be seen, especially every time I stub my toe or catch a cold. Dangling from the ceiling like stalactites, there's a dripping assemblage of minor fears: like sleeping through my alarm clock, forgetting someone's name, and failing to complete a task from the previous room. You probably shouldn't venture into the darker caverns; they contain more primal fears like the death of loved ones, major losses, and even the impairment of my mind. Step carefully as you exit, so as not to drag any of these denizens back with you.
Next, we'll visit one of the loudest rooms, dedicated to news and events. Try not to trip on the headlines, jetting like tickertape from the never-ending news apparatus in the center. This spacious place is abuzz with more than headlines. You might think those are TVs on the walls, but look closer. They're giant smartphone screens, zoomed into bulletins from friends and family, or sometimes a fragment of an article I read somewhere. Wish I could remember where, because it's interesting enough to tell other people about it. Please note: these are only memories of the news items, so their veracity may be even more in question than the original newsflashes.
You may be able to hear the next room from the hallway. The creativity suite lures you in with atmospheric music, cinnamon and chocolate aromas, softly suffused sunlight from the wide-open windows. Hang out here on the comfy cushions and reach for the ideas as they waft by in a sea of filmy colors. Look. The one you've got in your hand. It looks a bit like a house, right? I caught the same one right before I started this piece. Hold it in the sunlight and let it grow. Don't worry. If you have to leave it here while you visit another room, you can easily find it again when you return. Just don't wait too long, or it will start to fade again.
If I had it to do over, I'd never have built this next room. Why, you ask? You'll see. Mind your head on the doorway: it's a little too small to walk in normally. You don't want to hear how many times I've hit my head on this archway and kicked myself. Regrets roll, slither, and seep throughout this dingy room. Though every surface is grimed with an unpleasant combination of dust and grease, you can see the circular path I've worn clean. These regrets vary in size and importance: from a misspoken word, plinking like a rolling marble; to a missed opportunity, shriveled and mummified on a shelf. I'd rather you didn't notice how many of these memories have been misshapen by my noxious habit of holding them close to my chest. I really wish I knew how to quit them.
Still with me? I'll confess, I'm impressed. We've traversed through some unpleasant territory, but I promise I've saved the best for last. In this room, suffused with golden light, you'll see nothing but delights. Replaying on a loop, you'll see holograms of happy moments. If you look closely, you'll recognize the same person in many of them: growing steadily over the years but always with his warm brown eyes. My son, standing on wobbly legs, or enjoying a soft pretzel as we sit on a sun-soaked lawn. My son, wearing his glasses for the first time, or swimming across the pool in water beams of light. My son, growing steadily, but still the same kind, laugh-filled spirit. Definitely the best thing I've ever done. Go ahead and tour this room. You'll see other loops, containing people I've helped. An aqua fitness student thanking me for making her mobile again. Or a stranger I helped yesterday by pointing out that her headlights weren't on in the darkening twilight. In this space, you'll also encounter satisfying scents, sounds, and feelings, with walls the brilliant hues of sunset, with soft grass underfoot, with a very purring of the air. Feel free to linger as long as you'd like.
Now perhaps you can understand how, sometimes, I get a bit lost in here. If you're perceptive, you might be able to guess which room I'm visiting by the expression on my face: a micro-expression of despair, or a distinct upturn of the mouth, a light in the eyes. Maybe you'll hear me hum a little tune, or mumble briefly to myself, as if sending away a bad thought. I've been told my face is expressive enough that these inner journeys often show through.
Thanks for coming along with me on the tour. I hope you've enjoyed it. No, you don't need to walk all the way back. Simply open your eyes.
A miniature carnival, part of a train set. A blurry umbrella ride rotates on the left side of the photo, while a red swing ride dominates the right side. The background is dotted with blurry white Christmas lights, with the indistinct green and gray shape of a hill rising in the middle distance.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-22 01:21 am (UTC)From:all the tasks, errands, and requests that compete for my attention
I'm all too familiar with THAT room.
I love the idea of a carnival as part of a train set! Is someone in your house a major train fan? A big enough fan to have built a table or other space for a semi-permanent display?
no subject
Date: 2025-11-22 07:12 pm (UTC)From: