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free association averts reality

(written at lunchtime -- afternoon destroyed by head, read, work, head, read, work)

Red, green, blue, grey. Bright colours, and the sense of one side of my perceptual field cringeing, puckering up like a mouthful of rotten oranges. It's the headache again, fluttering around my head like a tattered grey shadow. Last week, it was coming. Orange light bubbling in my nose, a sound like a crystal footstep breaking plastic grass. I drank some gin, put it off. Last night, I looked up, and the red curtains of the cinema were crawling. I choked down a pill, put it off. And here I am, stomach caught in a twist of nausea, watching the surge and ebb of the coffee queue, wanting coffee and knowing I shouldn't and doing nothing but waiting and looking, waiting and looking, and what should I do? Should I take another pill, re-wrap my mind in a serotonin comforter? Why am I even asking the question? Of course I should. It's a medical problem with a medical solution.

If it weren't for the monkey-voice jabbing my mind with a wizened finger, saying to me, no, this is a headache with a name .

A name, a history, and a reason for being and for being here and now. It's a headache with a story, and the story begins: when I was a child I found a dead snake lying in the grass ...