Labyrinth of the Mind
The device hums to life, and in an instant, reality dissolves. I blink, and when my eyes open, I’m standing inside a vast, shifting landscape—a surreal world of memories, dreams, and fears woven together. Fragmented scenes from my life float in bubbles around me, like windows into the past. Each bubble is different: one glows warmly with childhood memories, while others pulse with the haunting shadows of mistakes and regrets.
Beside me is Dr. Hale, the neuroscientist who built this device. I agreed to try it because I thought confronting my innermost self might bring me closure, help me untangle what I could never understand. But now that we’re here, I feel exposed, as if every secret I’ve ever kept is about to be laid bare.
Suddenly, the path shifts, and towering doors appear, each leading to different parts of my mind: Memories, Fears, Desires, Regrets. Dr. Hale urges me to choose, and we step through a door marked Fears. Inside, it’s dark, cold, and oppressive—a maze of shadowed corridors with whispers echoing around us. I realize that to escape, we’ll have to face each door, navigate every room.
But as we walk deeper, it dawns on me—there’s no exit until I accept what I find here. Dr. Hale and I need to piece together each memory, confront each fear, and unravel every regret if we’re ever going to make it out.
It’s not just a journey into the mind—it’s a journey through everything I am. And the only way to escape is to face myself completely.
Connections
I dramatically throw open my arms. "Do you get it now" I shout as they look around in horror. "What are those" they ask tentatively pointing at the multitude of strings crisscrossing the landscape. "Oh those are my special connections. You've heard of all roads lead to Rome. This is my version, all strings reveal everything is my fault." "That... That's not possible" They stammer. "Of course it is just watch". I walk them down the path showing how my actions or lack thereof caused everything that's wrong in my vicinity. I can see them listening intently as I make my case. I think I've proven my point when they give me a strange look. "You know none of that is on you right" I shake my head at their well intentioned nonsense. Obviously they are just trying to be kind to such a screwup. I pat them sympathetically on the back as I explain once again how I'm to blame for everything wrong in the world. Eventually I'll bring them around, one day they'll understand. Neither of us are going anywhere until I do.
Chaos. Never ending background music because a song is always stuck in my head. Thoughts meander like leaves in a breeze. My brain is never turning off except to sleep. Sleep is like a fog.
An ordinary summoning, she called this. Why did we choose my mind? Because she knew it would be more interesting than hers, and she didn’t want me to know all her secrets. Right. My mind has plenty of cobwebs, oh there’s the quadratic formula! Cobwebs cloud what exactly that formula solves for, maybe something involving square roots? I can’t remember. School was so long ago. I miss it, but I could live inside my mind, call it the school of the self. Isn’t that what philosophers did? Solipsism, that’s what living exclusively in my mind would involve, only I can’t because I’m not alone in here. I have to find a way out somehow. I haven’t yet. I’m tripping on words, which have real physical properties in my mind apparently.
I’m lost, and I’ve lost Talia too. She’ll probably enjoy the forest of my brain, she likes hiking, and I too am enjoying walking through pink leaves, sunlight dappled shadows. Birds chirp, woodpeckers hollow out certain trees, nesting inside my mind. Exhaustion hits like the sun setting, and the darkness sets in. The fog settles, like I’m never going to find her again, like I’m always going to stay lost here. Still, comforting numbness returns, none of what’s outside is real in my mind, just characters, Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, some people are permanent high school students, and god I miss high school, I had friends back then, though never the kind of friendships shown on TV, still, rewriting the stories is how my mind occupies itself at night, when the fog sets in and the world outside doesn’t exist. Talia calls and I consider ignoring her but instead I track the sound of her voice. In my mind, my ears work perfectly, though outside one is faulty without the hearing aid and unreliable when the hearing aid is on also.
She found the cord, the pull cord my dad almost refused to pull when my mom was giving birth to me. If we pull it, we’ll be ejected, I tell her. She’s not ready to leave my mind, and I don’t blame her. We’re in a nice spot - the cast of all the TV I watched as a child are cardboard cutouts symbolizing how I played with them in my mind, my first crush waves at Talia, who tells me I had good taste back then. I did.
In a secret alternate universe, Talia occupies a similar section of real estate, but not in the version of my mind we’re traveling through. I don’t let myself think about my friends that way. Not if they’re in relationships - they are off limits, just like professors and therapists.
As though thinking about it changed the scenery, my old therapist’s office sprouts into view. The green coach I used to sit on when I was diagnosed with PTSD, when I was told what happened to me was traumatic, that the nightmares I was suffering from were actually maybe memories. Those memories are further in the fog, so I lead Talia away from this area, far from that part of the mind. She wouldn’t want to see me like that. I didn’t want to be like that, that’s part of why I’m not in therapy anymore - it’s pointless to dwell on the past.
But the past is most of my mind’s real estate, what’s not taken up by fiction and daydreams, oh Wikipedia citations are floating through the fog, wild. Maybe we should pull that cord now? I’m worried Talia will see too much and decide I’m too much like Liam and Darby and Aviva and Kevin and so many friends that no longer occupy the title anymore decided. Traffic come, oh great Liam’s here, fat and immovable and I was so bad at being their friend, our autisms clashed in opposing ways.
I never got around to outright telling Talia what happened with Liam because it would involve my brother, and Liam made it abundantly clear nobody wants to hear about my brother. Nobody wants to hear about my brother. Nobody wants to - aaaand he’s in my mind now.
“Talia, I’m pulling the cord!” Talia nodded, the wind making hearing words impossible as I yanked the cord just as my brother’s hands began… we’re just sitting on my living room couch now. My mind was chaos, and my house appears comparatively calm. “Sorry about that.”
The Trailer Park of the Mind and Premature Ejaculation
I'm still not sure why I was chosen to be the first to ever journey into the vast and turbulent fuckery of my own mind, but there I stood with my wife. I was surprised when I was told that I could bring a guest. My wife, Sweetie (not her real name of course, because she'd kill me if she could be linking in any way to my writing) was the obvious choice I figured that she more than anyone else deserves to get some answers as to why I find the topics of trailer parks and human sexuality FUCKING HILARIOUS. Now, if you were to combine trailer parks and human sexuality into one topic, I would probably laugh until my sphincter prolapsed leading me to slowly bleed out as I chortled, giggled, and cackled into a blood loss induced state of brain death.
Well, there we stood my wife's dainty hand in mine, in front of the quietly buzzing portal that swirled with multicolored lights that kind of made me wonder if this is what a person on an LSD trip sees when they try to eat a handful of Skittles mixed with M&M's and Lucky Charms marshmallows. We'd been told that this miracle of modern science before us would transport us into the recesses of my mostly irregular, far from the acceptable operating standards of a healthy human mind ready to go where no one should really want to go in the first place.
Strangely enough, considering the scientific wonder that was about to happen, there was a surprising lack of fanfare as we stood there. In fact, all the lead scientist did was tell us to go with an indifferent waive of his hand. It reminded me of the way you might waive your hand at your waitress at Denny's when she comes to offer a refill of your coffee while your mouth is stuffed with the last bite of your Grand Slam Breakfast. So, without further adieu or adon't for that matter, we stepped into the portal.
Now, let me say that the trip into my mind was a bit anticlimactic. One second we're in a lab within the bowels of Whatsa-Matta-U College of Science and Technology (located in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota of course) and the next we're in this weird hallway lined with doors of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The floor was carpeted in that split pea soup green shag carpeting that was popular in 1970's. To our surprise, we weren't alone because in the middle of the hallway stood a little leprechaun-sized man who looked EXACTLY like Curley of the Three Stooges.
"Welcome to your wee whittle bwain," he exclaimed stepping forward with a smile that was just a bit too happy.
First, the strange little stooge stepped up to me and gave my hand a firm shaking and then he kissed me full on the mouth. While I tried to remove the Curley slobber from my face, and the Curley taste off my tongue the little perv turned his attention to my wife. He didn't offer her a handshake. Instead, he immediately attached himself to my Sweetie's leg like a horny barnacle and proceeded to vigorously dry hump her leg. Of course, I jumped in to save her, but I didn't have to do much because with a practiced movement of her arm, she grabbled little Curley by his littler Curley and gave it a good twist. To no one's surprise, Curley immediately lost all enthusiasm for adding a stain to her jeans and dropped to his knees.
"What'd ya do that for!" he groaned as he tried to untwist little Curley.
"I figured if it works for the whole you when you get a bit randy, it'd probably work for whatever the fuck you are," my wife replied while checking to make sure that her new Levi's were Curley cum free.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound mature, "I think you need to control yourself and who exactly are you?"
"I'm the most responsible voice in your head, so I was elected to be your guide." Curley replied, cautiously and very gingerly moving away from the missus.
"GREAT!" My wife and I responded in stereo.
"Geez. Think ya would be a little grateful to have someone to help you get through the cluster fuck wrapped in a gorilla circle jerk that is your psyche." Curley whined, his feelings somehow hurt.
"Maybe we should get on with it," my wife said motioning to the hallway and all the doors. "What exactly is this place."
"This my dear," Curley said with a theatrical waive of his pudgy hand, "Is your hubby's, "Hall of Important Stuff. Everything that he values is behind these doors and it's all organized by category."
"You'd think there'd be labels on the doors," my wife said approaching an ebony black door with a skull door knob.
"I wouldn't..." Curley gasped trying to stop my missus from opening door.
It was too late, because with the same quickness she used to grab Curley's berries she grabbed the door knob and pulled the door wide open and was greeted by a thunderous wall of noise. The force was such that it knocked the wee horny bastard poor off his feet and like a music grenade sent him flying about twenty yards further down the hallway.
"I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL"....." "I SEE A LITTLE SILHOUETTO OF A MAN SCARAMOUCHE, SCARAMOUCHE, WILL YOU DO THE FANDANGO"....."FAIRIES WEAR BOOTS YEAH YA GOTTA BELIEVE ME..."
Pummeled by rock lyric's, it took all of my petite Irish wife's strength to get the door closed. With the sonic bulldozer finally contained, Curley was able to stand up on his pudgy little legs. Any enthusiasm the little perv may have had left was officially gone. Now, he stared daggers at Sweetie.
"That is your hubby's music lyric room," he grumbled as he made his way towards us wiping his bald brow. "It's totally useless, but pretty fucking encyclopedic at the same time. PLEASE ask before you open another door! This hallway is filled with stuff that is worthless to us, but it can still be VERY dangerous!"
"How about this door," I asked pointing to a multi-colored door.
"That's one of my favorite's," Curley replied. "Go ahead."
So, expecting the worst, I opened the door and was greeted by, "Rabbit Season!...." "Duck Season!...." I'd obviously found my Looney Toons room. Sweetie was quick to point out that there was a lot more looney toons to me than could be found in that room.
The tour continued from there. Curley was an adept guide and quickly pointed out the more dangerous parts of my mind. The biggest danger by far was the great void that was my intellect. He explained that my stupidity was so intense it was starting to become a vacuum and there was real fear amongst the voices and my personal demons that called my mind home that they could all be sucked into the void's vast nothingness. The running theory was that if I ever reached the watches FOX News level of stupid the void would expand into a vast black hole that would first pull in the various elements of my psychosis and eventually gain enough strength to draw in all life on Earth and eventually the entire planet.
From there Curley led us through this sad little cemetery. Ever the sensitive soul, Sweetie couldn't help bust ask who was buried there. Curley explained in a solemn tone that the cemetery was the resting place for all of my dreams that had died.
As we made our way through the maze of headstones one grave site caught Sweetie's eye because it was covered with fresh flowers and lit candles surrounded the burial mound. Curley explained that this was probably the saddest broken dream of all and he didn't want to talk about it. However, after Sweetie threatened him with another twist of his little Curley he explained that the departed dream died the day my puberty ended. Surprisingly, the memory of that tragic dream brought a tear to our guide's eye as he told his tale. The dream he explained with a sob and a sniffle was that I would achieve at least an average sized penis, but it was a foolish dream because I was Irish and small even by Irish standards. More than a wee bit uncomfortable remembering this long departed dream, I couldn't help but look over at Sweetie. Of course, her eyes held more than just a single tear, and unable to hold back the loss, she sobbed and wailed for what could have been. However, as far as I was concerned that dream need not be remembered and I was ready to move the fuck on.
Eventually, we came to a trailer park at the end of a gravel road. The trailers were run down and of the single wide variety. County fair midway prize tapestries depicting Quiet Riot, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Confederate flags hung limply in dirty windows. Their frayed and faded polyester functioned as curtains hiding their denizens from the light while filtering out the smell of cheap cigarettes and charred grilled government cheese sandwiches. More than a few trailers had rusted Camaros and Pintos up on blocks in the front yard. The dismal air in the trailer park was filled with the smell of a septic system that was stretched beyond it's structural tolerances and somewhere the depressing silence was broken by Free Bird's endless guitar solo For some reason, Curley seemed nervous and put a finger to his lips warning us to be quiet.
It must've looked like Sweetie and I were going to say something because Curley, whispered, "This is where the other voices that live in your head and your personal demons live," he explained while looking around nervously.
"I don't want to disturb them because I owe half of them child support and the other half are pissed because I said that Jeff Foxworthy isn't funny and that a dating website catering to first cousins is A BAD idea," he explained in hushed tones.
Taking his lead, we quietly left the trailer park behind and after what seemed like forever we found ourselves in what looked like a huge art museum. The paintings on the wall seemed to express all of my emotions from the blah all the way through hatred.
"This is where your emotions are housed," Curley explained. "Each painting depicts an emotional response to an event in your life. Everything is categorized. Joy with joy, horny with randy, angry with angry etcetera," he noted taking on the tone of snobbish. EuroTrash.
Sweetie walked along examining the paintings. When she got to shame, she noticed that there were a few paintings that were covered up.
"What are these?" she asked gesturing towards the covered paintings.
"Oh those," Curley chucked. "Those depict times when premature ejaculation led to a bit of disappointment for her and spoiled the mood for all involved. Pretty embarrassing, so the artists are taking their time, so unlike your hubby, they're not finished yet."
"Moving on," I grumbled as Sweetie chuckled.
At the end of the museum stood a huge gate with a sign above it that read, "To Go Out of Your Mind, Exit Here."
"Well, that's your mind. Such as it is." Curley said pointing towards the gate. "I'd like to say it's been fun, but I can't. I'm gonna be walking funny for a week thanks to your wife AND NOT FOR A FUN REASON!"
With no reason or desire to delay our departure, Sweetie and I stepped through the gate and found ourselves back in the lab. Of course, the scientists were there waiting to poke and prod us. Apparently everything came back normal and we were allowed to leave.
As we were leaving, I couldn't help but overhear the scientists, Dr. Badenov and Dr. Fatale chuckle.
"Going off half-cocked," Badenov chuckled. "Hasn't Shallowgenepool heard that you gotta think about baseball?"
"His poor wife," Dr. Fatale said in sympathetic agreement.
