mind fleek

WARNING: this is a long, boring post about me me me whine whine.


This is not how my thought process manifests itself normally.

This is how it manifests itself after my brain has been halfway uprooted.

Orbiting the Giant Hairball has rudely pulled so many switches in my brain that I can’t even communicate to my roommates in Earth speak right now.
Let’s start with a story.
Once upon a time, when I was around 12, I think I probably reached Nirvana. I was in the back of my dad’s Sebring Convertible and I waved to a little kid, even though I’m not a kid person. So I achieved Nirvana suddenly. I felt the whole world go away, and I lived in the wind bubble at 60 mph. We stopped at Kmart. I said with a smile to Dad, “Hey…I think I just reached Nirvana”. My mom seemed oddly accepting. For some reason, though, this threw my Dad into an uncharacteristic fury (He is not unstable or prone to unreasonable anger, by the way). He was vehemently against the claim, saying how there was no way I could reach Nirvana, giving the totally bizarre reason that I’m “Only 12 years old! How is a 12 year old going to reach Nirvana?!” He was livid. My mom on the other hand took this as a challenge. She faced off with him, saying, “If she says she’s reached Nirvana then MAYBE SHE DID!” I just blissed out, until later I thought about what my dad had said. He seemed to always be right so…I hadn’t reached Nirvana. After all, I was just 12 years old. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t until later I thought about what my mom and dad fighting really seemed like. The ultimate rebel, outsider, and all around outlier, Mom, defying authority: angles, the epitome of a white-collar worker, Dad, champion of logic and words. So at the age of 12, I learned that apparently 12 year olds can’t reach Nirvana, but my mom would be accepting of whatever…weird cosmic experiences I would get bestowed upon me. Including Nirvana.

So I read the first 56 pages. I am now sitting, reading my closet doors that are covered in pink pieces of paper. Those pieces in turn are covered in frantic scribbles: my brain overflowing through my favored black Crayola marker. I’m not sure what my brain is trying to say- if it’s agreeing with the book or fervently arguing with it. I’m going to settle for it being overly stimulated. I was on an Elliptical machine while I was reading it, so I couldn’t even jot down my thoughts, just raise the level on the machine to “Nuclear”. I think the reason I feel so messed up is because…I’m not even sure I’m in the orbit of a hairball. I’ve tried to be in a hairball for so long. I once even lost a hold of feeling emotion so I could be in a hairball. Being in hairballs is not a talent of mine. It’s one of the couple things I utterly fail at. It’s the reason jobs elude me, why I can’t say anyone 100% understands me, and why I constantly “float”- float between people, some of who aren’t even there. I am, for better or worse, a 4th dimensional person. It’s a Korean phrase (as far as I know) for someone who has 4 sides, and doesn’t seem to be…”right”.
A popular break down of the 4 types can be:
Bright and Normal
Bright and Strange
Dark and Normal
Dark and Strange

A 4 dimensional person displays all of these or none of these simultaneously. Another common trait is that “words drop out of the sky” to them. This can have several meanings. They might be seen talking to themselves (there is a distinction from crazy, because, at least in my opinion, they aren't talking to themselves. They're talking to whatever is listening, as opposed to crazy people who are talking to their hand or something). They might be artists or poets with an extremely strange, prolific personal aesthetic. Communication with everything and nothing. I don’t know about other 4th dimensional people, but for me, it’s ensured that I can never converse with someone with my entire mind. I’m either analyzing their brain or missing out on everything, coming away from the conversation with entire messages totally unnoticed. Just because I'm lazy.
It also ensures that I totally fail at fitting in. I think part of the reason this book has me so freaked out because it's on the verge of invalidating my existence. So far, I'm almost labeled as a gray fuzzy nothing on the chart. As a bubble person, I float within hairballs and orbits. I go to art school. To study business. I always claim I'm anti-Fine Art, yet…I paint more than most art students do. I’m not an artist by my own definition, but then what would you think when you see my piles of sketchbooks, constant doodles, works in progress? It makes no sense. I love thinking business, and I love the privacy it gives me to do my own projects. I have never been as unhappy as I was in the Fine Art environment. Ironically, it stifled my creativity. I wasn’t allowed to do anything the way I wanted, because it wasn’t “artistic” enough, whatever that meant. As a Business major, I have more freedom in my art than I’ve ever had. I can draw what I want, when I want, how I want, and it’ll still be ok because I’m not supposed to be able to draw. I’m in my own little orbit, I think, floating in my daydreams and scribbles, and ambition. I can raise my hand proudly when someone asks if I’m an artist, because no one expects me to. There isn’t a place for me in the world yet, so I want to make my own place, which is why I’m going to be an entrepreneur. I want to live in the world and show them the 4th dimension through my designs and products. I’m not sure if I’m incredibly stupid or a genius, if I can break through my anti communication frequency and forcefully attach it to everyone else’s frequency, but I’m going to find out. Even if I fail horribly, I can always float back up for some R&R.