I am writing an article on Synaesthetic metaphors on the other blog, Celenagaia. But my mind has fractured, split in two, and the personal side of things has come over to this blog, as is so often the case.
This is my life, everyday. My mind, lifting away from what would pull it down: the everyday, the concrete … And I wish I could show you all what I see, where a colour can be attributed to a sound, a mood, a thought. I couldn’t possibly tell you why I see Gabriel Yared’s “An Angel Falls” in pale colours of cream and powder blue, or why a feral mood is a beetle’s glossy back of purple and black. This is just what I *see* behind my eyes, in that space where senses mingle and cross over.
I am perhaps mad – I know others think it, have told me so.
I could care less. If sanity is to be locked in one place forever, to never see the colour of love, of depression, or the shape that an oboe’s undulating sound makes – then I would rather find solace in insanity.
But this is not the case, for the phenomenon exists, and has been brought out of its dense hiding place (purportedly in the cerebral cortex, though there are other theories for its origin.) On a neurological scale, it is one of the less inhibiting “conditions” – and I hesitate to use this word, really. The only times Synaesthesia has worked against me, are when I am tired or have gone into shock. Then it is closer to a self-preservation technique; the creeping paleness of the mind is a warning to slow down, while the blinding light of a shock “whiteout” is stark enough that I might shutter down completely, locking out all other emotional reactions.
I am drunk and happy tonight, in that strange way brought about by tracing the intelligent thoughts and data of others back through article after article, wherein I find peace in learning more about, well, everything. Since my mind started working properly again – now less inhibited by anorexia’s diminishing effect – it’s almost frightening (but wonderful with it) how much there is of the world to take on board, to experience and appreciate.
Maybe I am mad after all, and egotistical with it. Certainly no Sherlock.
But still, it is no small gift to be able to read your work and trace one thought and image to another; or to align facts as a child will stack building blocks; and to laugh to/at myself when the connection is made, with an alacrity that I would never have hoped for several years ago, when my mind hurt from being so small and dialled-down, so unwell.
I will never underestimate the power of free thought, in all senses of that word.
Freedom. To come and go as we please, inside our own minds, inside the minds of others. To wander at a whim, which gives me the greatest pleasure in all I do; to leave the concrete behind, all that it entails.
Isn’t that what we do everyday, on these social media outlets? We leave our bodies behind, even the fingers tap-tapping on keys – we take ourselves to that place where our minds go, and I do visualize it as one big room, you know, with little side-sections of private conversation, and cubby-holes where the DM threads take place. Others have spoken of this before, too. It can sometimes feel like shouting across the room to gain attention, but for the most part, an even tone is all that is necessary.
And of course, the Mexican wave of laughter that ensues when something particularly fiendish goes viral – this can mark a mind and carry the smile back to the lips, to the everyday.
As ever, my friends – just thoughts. Just my version of reality. I live more in the abstract than ever before. It’s a safe place to be. As someone who prefers to convey her meaning through symbolism, my language is often littered with imagery – whether I mean for this to happen or not. A comparison or likening to something else is my preferred (indirect) reference, rather than actually making a clear definition of what I mean. This has proved infuriating for some, when I could use three words instead of ten; but then again, where’s the fun in being a writer, if you can’t carry over the continuous narrative in your mind to everyday dialogue?
Not only that, but – and here comes the admission – I am almost always afraid of misinterpretation. Of showing that I have erred, have misunderstood what another is saying. I know this makes little sense, given that I am myself hedging around saying aloud what I mean; and therein lies the beauty of relying on metaphor and symbolism. Better to make reference to something – an idea, a mood, an emotional reaction – through these misty conduits, than to be pinned to a definition.
I’d take connotation anyday.
My truth can be cloak ‘n dagger, escaping through the lamplight haven, while the recipient stands scratching their head over the code. Subjective as ever.
Of course, a lot of my meaning will be lost in translation, and we end up dancing around the embers of what could be a fire. And as a coward will, it allows me to live comfortably in the thought that I’ve at least tried to get my point across.
I am my own worst enemy when it comes to communication, sometimes.
But the imagery is so much nicer to spin out.
Does the body rule the mind, or does the mind rule the body?