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I understand the swing.
It’s completely disorienting. Moving this way, in no particular pattern, with all of my senses shut off—no touch, no sight, no hearing, nothing to taste or smell—I’m out of my body with remarkable speed. There’s nothing to anchor me inside it.
The pings give way to a soft gong, like the sound felt-covered mallets make against a xylophone. But the instrument here is my brain. I can feel the vibrations on first the left lobe, then the right, then back and forth in some kind of song or rhythm like someone is playing a tune against the various folds of exposed brain inside my skull.
There are stars in here, bright gold against a pitch black sky, then silver ones, and bright white, then flashes of color like red and a lucent green. But I’m seeing them on an enormo
