It's a feeling that starts in the crown of my head, radiating through my skin, towards my feet. I normally have a moment to snap back at this point, but sometimes it happens too quickly, or subtly for me to notice.

If I don't catch it, it progresses into a more severe feeling.

It's like my brain is a piece of warm gum on the bottom of someone's shoe.

As the shoe lifts, I can feel the stringy entanglements pulling, as my brain separates from my head. They stretch, all pink and gooey, slowly tearing themselves away from my insides, until the strings break and it's like I'm looking over my shoulder, my brain a separate entity from my body.

I'm almost under water, not of this universe.

I look at my hands, they're not my own.

I hear my voice, from far away.

I'm drowing in my own sorrow, in a realm I've created all on my own.

I find a corner.

I cry.

Because I do not feel real.

I feel like a dream.

But not a nice dream; a nightmare.

Like I'm invisible, except I'm not.

People can see me. They look scared.

That's why I run away, try to find a safe space; a corner of sorts.

The waves rush over me, tiny little shudders,

my senses overloading.

Everything is too much.

I start to panic more, trying to bundle my brain back into my head,

telling myself

"I am real, I am here!"

The sticky broken fragments, getting stuck to my hands.

I'm covered in brain.

I whimper quietly.

I try to breathe.

Each time I shudderise, it's a new experience.

I notice something else about myself.

I try to take something constuctive and beneficial from it.

To learn, to help myself next time.

But it's like a bacteria, ever-changing.

They get further apart, but it's so unpredictictable.

Maybe one day, I'll get it under wraps.

But until then,

I'll give it a name, and hope it listens when I say go away.