...

The psychologist said it's a chemical imbalance. At times it gets so unbearable that I would sit holding my head with my hands over closed eyes, way down below my knees. I stay that way for minutes, trying to block out every sound, every smell, and I would get that floating sensation of being literally detached from everything around me.

It is like having my own world, my own small planets revolving in my head, darkness with dim spots of light dancing behind my eyes, and I can see myself in the middle of it all, drifting in between those dim spots, a curled up mass of translucent flesh, as though solidity is a foreign word.

I float so lightly that I almost know how the waves of a breathy whisper slowly traverse from lips to ear, or how a tiny falling feather quietly swirls through the air on a tranquil day. The borders of the darkness in my head separate me from the sounds and sensations whirling in the light around me, as though nothing can hurt me, nothing can make me unfurl from my fetal existence, and I am devoid of all the nagging thoughts that plague me when I open my eyes.

It's all so very strange and comforting at the same time, feeling absolute freedom from everything yet dangerously close to insanity that if I totally let go of it, the very serrated line that holds me back will not hesitate to release me. Staying in this state is not for long, even if it means that I will have to bear those unwelcome thoughts back inside the contours of my mind. To stay this way forever is to close my eyes forever. It is not yet the right time.