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I read an article on it for some class I had. An intro into biology or psychology—one of the ologies. Whatever class it was doesn’t really matter, but that article stuck with me because I’ve experienced what they were attempting to prove.
It’s kind of like the difference between a complicated interchange of roads and highways versus a simple country road, where women are the interchange and men the lonely road that leads in a single direction.
I’ve heard men even have anothing boxwhere they can escape to and literally think about … nothing.
Kane told me about it.
How in the hell is that possible?
My brain could never.
Thinking of nothing?
It’s hard to imagine what that would be like.
My mind races at a thousand miles an hour all the time. Different thoughts and emotions all scattered about, bouncing off each other until I’m ultimately a victim to the cacophony of thoughts, while men supposedly think in more linear ways, one simple thought at a time.
I wish I had a nothing box like them or the ability to think about one thing at a time, but my mind won’t ever shut up. Not on its own, at least.
That’s why I find an escape in music.
In sound.
In a beat that changes in tempo but always strikes me deeply on the inside.
Letting the music take over, I don’t have to think about where I’ll get my next meal or if I’ll have a place to sleep at night. The music stops the racing thoughts … It brings me peace for the hours I become lost in sound and dancing.
But what I experienced last night…
All the different parts that tumbled together in less than a few hours…
My mind has never raced faster than when driving home from Damon’s house.
The entire way, I gripped my hands over the steering wheel, Damon’s scent filling the truck as worry overtook me.
Should I have gone back?
Should I have left at all?
Should I have listened to him when he told me to leave?
Was there something I could have done to help him?
Or would my presence there have made things worse?
Those thoughts were running through my head with all the rest, colliding and bouncing as I arrived home, climbed into bed and stayed awake for most of the night, the thoughts preventing sleep.
After spending the day in bed, I regretted the choice I made. Not because I thought I could be there for Damon, or that he’d even have let me. But because of the puzzle he becomes every time we talk—the hidden scars he keeps locked away.
I have a feeling the man at his door was the key to those scars.
It takes effort to get dressed for work like nothing happened, and I drive to Myth wishing I would have stuck around to demand answers.
Not from Damon.
He doesn’t work that way.
But from the man I know scarred him.
