The Thought and her thoughts

I have trouble eating, the Thought told her therapist. Everything tastes stale, and sweaty. It’s like all the nervous people in the world rubbed my food with their palms.

Listen, said the therapist. I want you to go home and drink a glass of orange juice. Then, lie in bed and try not to think about anything for a while. I guarantee that within 42 days you’ll be able to eat properly again.

The Thought did as she was told: she bought a bag of battered oranges for a dollar and squeezed out their sticky mist until it filled a pitcher. She drank deeply, the line of her throat sliding up and down.

Then she laid in her bed and tried to make her mind a clean blackboard. But chalky white designs weaved their way into her, equations piled up like firewood, poetry wrote itself in messy script, and soon there was so much thought inside of the Thought that she split open.

Oh, she said, so this is what it feels like to fly. She soared over decaying schools and the sandy heads of psychoanalysts. Now she can eat whatever she wants.