Out from the Hat

An invisible hat covers my head, visibly wrapped in a mass of beautiful waves. They toss and turn and toss and turn, like the insides of the head. Or is it the head? It is, ins't it, where the ideas are formed, like little human beings, growing hands and feet and organs of their own? 

I wished to visit the insides one day and with that intention, couple of days back, I went into the doctor’s chamber, assured of a physiological disorder which laid tall claims on my professionalism. In its eight year now, my stomach cannot stomach a whole lot of things, including alluring, rich food and nerves which think ahead into the farthest of future. The nerves, mostly remained wrung, in a manner familiar most with washed clothes of which the last drop of water is squeezed out. I figured they must resemble an intestinal structure of their own. But I was calm, somehow reassuring myself that medicines would take care of the cure and mildly delighted that the gentle doctor was charming and smart.

He took me in, kindly, and put me on the clinical looking, uninviting bed. I tried to remain stable, but like always, I could not stomach the tension. As he held my hand to count my pulse, I felt myself turn cold, like the cold of the in-flight moments. Soon, I was prescribed with medicines attributing to anxiety. Anxiety, he said, has triggered all such symptoms in me. Something I know there is, yet, not what it is about.

I tried to understand, to identify, what this is about. But you see, the Halloween shadows of myself hover over me and tells me I am drowsy, that there are many shades of me and that I should just shun all responses and sleep. Even now, as I challenge the course of inaction versus a rational to fight everything away, I am very, very sleepy. Almost as if one of the many inside me has already taken to bed. Have I gone mad?

I read things I have written over the past year. How could I tell anyone that they live within me, and not outside on the road, caught in a glimpse? The Hat grows hattier, madder, taller, with little people in their resounding voices. I am their loudspeaker and only act as an amplifier. They have inhabited my senses and soul. And I cannot do without them, even if it means having cold feet. 

The world outside the hat is too distorted, while the one within is designed. Like pulling out a trick after another, they have overpowered my own voice. 

So, who is this, writing?