Over stimulated

(this is meant to be all over the place… it’s an effort to explain the synesthetic experience)

Conscious effort to be a sponge, my environment permeates my senses. There is nothing like the bubbling brook of words spilling from mouths and sharing vibrant washes of colour. This is a gift and a curse. I want to share all the pulling and pushing of toffee, when a voice reminds me of candy strings. How comforting, lull of lavender from a sigh and a simple phrase. It all seeps energy, the only words I can describe. I can’t slow it down, it’s all around. The twist of a bottle cap and sharp inhale, geometrical staircase in the air. Spiral morphs into mist and solidifying into the shrill cry of child and blocks carry me into a vision of building, structures around my feet and tingling in my finger tips. These cries are formative, concrete blocks and whimpers bring stars, constellations wrapping delicately around hairs. This sounds green, a blade of grass from the inside, like the earthy rot but a fresh garden. Mechanical, those metallic pieces that wedge between our sentences and fill up a stutter with burnt wood. Over stimulation as my eyes close and continue to welcome sounds as sensation. Flushing my skin and pumping adrenaline, fooling me into stretching breath. This happens again, over and over, as the days become nights and warped dreams. Synesthetic bliss and the pain of over feeling, empathetic to the tone and how the color has a weight, a layer on my skin. I should know by now, how to relax into the spaces, the slim silence that carries paper and shallow dips of faint colour.  Those stand still moments that lighten, caress me with softer edges, hollowed out and shaping to the hum of my own breath. That sound of falling, when it fills in feathered, an edge that stretches out in front me and remains, reliable colour. A rare experience amongst all these experiences that never quite feel like my own.