Neural Static

This giving brain-y vibes

You’ve done it too, haven’t you? Sat in a crowd, doing nothing, when suddenly you come up with a thought so disturbing, so incredibly out-of-character, that you immediately look up to check if anyone’s expression has changed. That’s you checking the perimeter. Testing whether the signal was noticed or not.

I do it all the time. Except sometimes, I like to let go of the reins, and watch as chaos erupts in that moment of true silence.

You see, the human brain is a complex yet simple thing. It is designed to keep our thoughts to ourselves, meant to keep them trapped inside the fortress of our skull. It’s funny how we just assume it’s sound proof, just because it’s bone.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.

I tap my pencil on the table, trying to find a rhythm for that one beat I keep forgetting.

“And he moved on…” Mrs. Dickens is saying, droning on and on and on about how Alexander led on his life of great conquering, inflicting boredom over us students.

History.

I don’t hate history, per se. Nor do I hate the teacher. But learning about things and people that are already dead — what good could that possibly bring to a person’s life? And a student’s, on top of that?

When a person dies, their brain stops — that’s a fact well known. Except the last few moments right before. When the brain stays active only to replay the best memories of a person’s life. Those memories are broadcasted — several signals sent out in the world for anyone who can read them.

I mean, why else would the brain use it’s last ounce of energy only for replaying moments? If you look closely, it sounds more like a desperate attempt at letting people know that the person exists — or at least, existed. That the person made a mark in this world.

If only the right people could detect and read those signals.

I shift my attention to the room in general. The desks are all lined perfectly, forming a table of six rows and seven columns. The windows on the right are open, and a wave of breeze enters the room, causing the curtains to dance along.

Everyone’s quiet, listening attentively to the teacher. But despite the silent environment, there’s this static noise, buzzing evenly through the room.

I look to my right. Maya sits there, the quiet girl, two rows away. She’s hunched forward, pushing a stray strand of gold behind her ear. Her pale skin looks paler under the flourescent lights, dark bags lining her under eyes.

To my left, Tim the topper sits stiff. Brown shaggy hair falling into his green eyes. There’s beads of sweat forming on his forehead, gleaming faintly on his skin.

What could he possibly be thinking right now?

I wait for a reaction. A flinch. A jerk. Anything to acknowledge the fact that he got my message.

Nothing.

He can’t read my mind then. Or maybe he doesn’t want me to know.

I move on to my next target as per routine.

It’s a habit I have, checking to see if anyone has finally acquired the ability to pick up the rare frequency my brain sends. It’s exhilarating and useless at the same time.

No one seems to get it.

I look to Leo next, the soccer player. For him, I conjure up a horrifying image — him falling during a game and tearing his ACL, going through all types of nightmares he’s surely had. I push the thought toward him and wait for a reaction.

Again, nothing. He keeps on chewing the back of his pen uselessly.

And now I’m bored.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

The rhythm. I still can’t seem to locate it.

I scan the room again, and a dark corner catches my eye.

Dark.

Ninety-five percent of the universe is dark. Pure, dark matter containing dark energy. Dark matter that contains all of everything we can’t see, feel, or touch.

If most part of the universe really is made of all the things we can’t quite prove even exist, why do we assume that our thoughts are only confined to our visible, five percent brains? Maybe the voices in our heads aren’t sent through electrical signals. Maybe they’re sent in the form of rarely detectable waves. That’s why most can’t detect them

If you imagine the universe as a deep dark ocean, you’ll realize how only the foam at the surface is visible to us, and not the thirty-five hundred more feet of depth underneath. That depth is the dark matter. And our thoughts are like tiny ripples through the depth.

They’re not noticeable usually — unless the ripple is big enough to rock the boat on the surface. But even then, you can’t exactly see the ripple, but you can feel it. If you just pay attention to your surroundings, you can discover more than you even want to know.

A guy in front of me — Harry, I think — shifts in his seat, folding his arms loosely and leaning back. He looks clearly bored.

Boredom.

It’s an exciting concept, really. It unlocks a completely different part of our brain, a mode we don’t usually even notice. The job of the neurons present in our brain is to transmit and process information continuously.

When we’re bored, it’s like second-nature for our mind to switch from external reality to internal simulations, causing the neurons to go berserk. These simulations are not merely imagination, but predictions our mind makes about our environment and people. That’s our brain’s network reaching out, trying to find connection, a signal, a purpose.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap —

Clang!

A water bottle falls to the floor, demanding the attention of the whole room. Everyone stops to stare at it for only a second. Then activity resumes — Mrs. Dickens turning back to write on the board, students listening numbly to the lecture she dictates.

I tap out my sequence again.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

It’s still not it.

Helen, the girl beside me, keeps on biting her nails, oblivious to the implosive thoughts in my head. Hers is a violent subconscious habit.

Did you know that more than ninety percent of our brain’s activity is subconscious? The subconscious part is what oversees tasks in our daily life like our heartbeat, breathing, and so on. But it doesn’t just control that. Our social atmosphere — the way we interact with people, objects, and our environment — also lies under the category.

You see how these activities aren’t really even our normal life’s concern? That shows that the conscious part of our brain is entirely separate from the subconscious.

Which means, our subconscious is capable of doing things our conscious has no idea of. Like possibly sending out invisible signals about our emotions, our likes, our dislikes, our lives, to anyone capable of detecting it.

So, the random thoughts that pop up in our brain about anything and everything? They aren’t just “random.” They are thoughts leaked from another person’s subconscious mind to ours — in a way that the conscious doesn’t even detect the anomaly.

In olden times, this was used as a silent way of communication — because before we had words, we had subconscious syncing. Words are only a recent invention, and today’s modern society has long forgotten the true purpose of our subconscious.

You see, the brain firmly works on the principle of adaptability. It constantly rewires itself according to our environment, morphing itself to think and act the way the body demands.

And adaptability isn’t a choice; it’s a built-in mechanism our brain is used to. Like, when you first learn to drive, it’s conscious and difficult, requiring you to pay all your attention. But over time, your subconscious takes over the driving part, while you think about stuff like what you’d like for lun —

“Ray!”

My head snaps in the direction my name was called.

Mrs. Dickens stands in front of the class, marker paused inches from the board. “Would you stand up and tell us what happened after Alexander’s death?”

I slowly get up from my seat as I scan my mind, thinking hard.

Alexander.

Alexander.

Alexander’s —

“The Hellenistic period,” the answer comes to me so fast, I question where it even came from — or if I even said it out loud or not. The speed is enough to make me believe it pierced right through my subconscious.

The woman studies me for a few moments. “Very well. Sit down.”

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Then she turns back to the board and starts writing again.

I wonder sometimes if they can all read thoughts — the teachers and staff. If they can, they hide it quite perfectly. I mean, how else would the teacher just know when you’re not focused in class? Or when you’re talking to your friend sitting all the way up in the back row?

It only makes sense for them to be able to pick up the rare signals of our brains.

I sit back down, and from the corner of my eye, I notice the nerdy guy shift in his seat. As I turn to look at him, I realize he’s not really present in the room at all. Instead, his gaze stays fixed on Maya, his pupils blown wide.

Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s quite clear of what he’s thinking. He’s thinking of her. Of how amazing she is. Of how she always somehow manages to beat him by even one single score.

That’s the thing, you know. We think we’re private when our mouths are shut. Which is funny, because our subconscious is leaking our thoughts and secrets through every pore of our body incessantly.

It’s right there — in the rhythmic tap of our feet, in the way our pupils dilate, the way the environment seems to change when we’re bored. If you look a bit closely, we’re all practically billboards for anyone who can just read past that limit of consciousness.

Tap tap. Tap tap.

I know what the rhythm is now.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

It’s a reflection of what I’m thinking.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

It’s not a beat of a song or even a snippet.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

It’s a code.

If only anyone would get it.

I muster up all energy and build up the voice inside my head. The neurons within my brain are full-on working now, firing around in their space. A single drop of sweat trails down the back of my neck, sending a slight shiver through my body.

The pressure builds and builds and builds in my head. Until all I feel is the weight of a scream being held in.

And then —

I let it all go.

Not physically. Not audibly.

Mentally.

It breaks loose all at once. Like the force of a physical shockwave hitting. I scan the room one more time, thoroughly. But instead of thirty students gasping and reacting, all I get is silence. Quiet, normal silence as Mrs. Dickens continues with her lecture, unbothered.

Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m about to turn my attention back to my tapping when I notice her. Maya. She hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t jumped. Hasn’t flinched. But she’s…frozen. Shivering even in the heat of the room.

Her eyes are wide as she stares at nothing. I watch her hands tremble as she fumbles with the books in her lap, putting them on the desk instead.

Then she gets up abruptly.

“Mrs. Dickens?” her voice is all weak and shaky. “I…I think I might be sick. May I use the restroom?”

“Yes, you may.” The teacher doesn’t even look up from copying down her notes.

Maya turns towards the door slowly, her movements jerky and awkward as she heads for the door. There’s a look of confusion on her pale face. The moment she exits the room and the door shuts behind her, the silence in the class resumes, swallowing the space she occupied just moments ago.

And that’s it. The class goes on, unconcerned about the fact that I possibly broadcasted the loudest sound ever.

Perhaps all the theories I’ve given, all the articles I’ve read are finally getting to me. Maybe the skull really is sound proof — no one has actually experimented on it to know it’s not. And maybe the rare frequencies our brain sends out? Maybe they’re only emitted to cancel the effect of waves coming toward the brain’s sensitive parts.

In olden times, it’s possible the concept of subconsciousness never even existed — I mean, they used actions to communicate after all. Adaptability sounds authentic, but why would our whole brain constantly rewire itself for the body? It sounds all tiring and useless.

Our brain works with only specific frequencies for a reason. It’s smart, brilliant, built by God in a way that it never fails to amaze man. Perhaps the frequency sent by the brain is a harmful one. Or perhaps the signal is never sent in the first place at all.

The idea of possibilities and the impossible is quite familiar to me. After all, searching and researching for vague theories is a hobby I’ve taken up lately.

The bell rings, startling the class.

Now that’s a reaction I would’ve liked.

But it wasn’t. All I got was that awkward stillness in the air, still spreading that static buzz. I watch now as Mrs. Dickens gathers her stuff and leaves. The students follow right after, single file. I dump my notebook and pencil in my backpack, and swing it over my shoulder.

Taking a few bored steps toward the door, I —

Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I stop dead in my tracks, eyes wide.

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

My pencil’s in my bag, my hands by my side.

I slowly turn my head.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

And meet a pair of dark eyes through a grey frame.

Noah.

The intense way he’s watching me, studying me — I somehow know what it means. I watch as he moves his pencil again, his gaze never straying from mine.

Tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I — S-E-E — Y-O-U — R-A-Y

“I heard you seeked attention, my lady,” he says as I only stand there and stare at his hands dumbly. “Anyone to just listen to what you had to say.”

I don’t have words. How could he —

“You asked. And I’ve delivered.”

With that he gets up, takes hold of his backpack, and walks out the door.

And I just stand there.

Scanning through my brain to find signs I missed.

And how of him of all people.