I don't even know. This was something I wrote to get over the fact that I can't seem to write any of my other stories. Huzzah for sometimes-writer-sometimes-artist!Mike.
Sometimes, somewhere in between proofing briefs and running errands and eating, Mike day dreams. He's one of those people with their head the clouds, and to him, it's calming. His brilliant, analytical lawyer mind is actually full of abstract thoughts; thoughts that he can't often tell anyone. He imagines a multitude of outcomes, a multitude of beginnings, in an collection, all in stunning, HD clarity.
There's often a swirl of legal text that circles the forefront of his mind, helping him accomplish the impossible: succeeding in a top-notch law firm without a degree. But hidden underneath the layers of "in the case of Anderson vs Klein..."; "due to the laws passed in 1996...", there's a current of words, endless words, rewriting his whole life. He imagines he ought to be in a mental ward, for it can't be too normal to experience this, but no one has institutionalized him yet, so he's safe.
He recognizes overanalyzing, as well as wishing, gets you nowhere in life, but it's not like he can stop. Sometimes he write it down, a mess of words that probably only would make sense to him, but most of the time, his illusions are immortalized in his mind; the wonders of eidetic memory.
He used to read, an attempt to make his words stop, but it seemed to fuel him more. Consuming words in a multitude of languages just made his thoughts more complex. They intertwined, he revised. He's fluent in at least one language they speak on every continent; his favorite was currently Greek. He loves being able to absorb the words of everyone who's ever bothered to write something down.
His mind, at times, reminds him of the kaleidoscopes he used to play with. They were infinite in their beauty, always changing. He finds kaleidoscopes fascinating. A simple toy holds mass amounts of potential; if he could, if he had time, he'd paint every snap shot his mind catalogued to share them with the world. Painting didn't slow down the undercurrent of his musings, but it didn't accelerate them, either. Focusing on one thing was as easy as it was hard.
He took up yoga, meditation, musical instruments, yet the thrum of thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, was still there. People looked at him as if he was strange; he didn't understand how well and truly different he was until he was older. He remembers his mother and father, staring at him in awe and shock, wonder, as he explained his train of thoughts to them. They never judged him; in fact, they encouraged it. Praise rained down on him as a child; you're so smart, Mike, and, can you explain that again Mike? Entertaining his parents with his mind never grew old for him. If they were alive right now, he'd still be doing it. Their warm, colorful laughter made him warm and calm and happy. Having his memory was a blessing; he could never forget them.
He grew to resent it, though. His teachers were all slightly fearful that him, super-boy genius wonder, would hope that he wouldn't disrupt their class. All his papers were often heavily analytical, never shorter than three pages. They sighed, gave him limits as to how long he could make his papers.
He turned to pot. That certainly was eye opening, because although his thoughts were distorted, marijuana opened him up to a new realm of possibilities. A new perspective meant more everything. He could view the world twice, rediscover everything.
He finds the lawyer work dull; same old, never changing. Although the interpreting of the Constitution, and the manipulation aspect of it all, it was pretty bland. He spent more time day dreaming than doing work, something that Kyle and the other associates abhorred him for.
He didn't mind one bit. He just lost himself in his mind, and continued on his way. It's not like he could get in trouble for slacking off on the job; he did all he was assigned to do by Harvey, as well as Louis's bitch work and briefs other associates dumped on his desk.
If he wanted to, if he had the time, as well as the money, to be able to stay home and type and eat properly, Mike could write down everything he's ever thought. He remembers everything effortlessly, and his thoughts are no different. He's not quite sure who would even read them; he'd probably have to edit them down—more revising, but they could certainly make a large documentary about him after he died.
He thought about that, his death, too. About the afterlife, about how he would go, what would happen to him, who would visit him? It's a bit of a morbid subject, really, but he's honestly curious. Would Gram choose to cremate him? To burn away his body until the entirety of his being is reduced to a pile of ashes? Or would she bury him, buy him a nice plot in a graveyard, grass covering up the evidence of his life and death? Would Gram be alive when he passed?
Sometimes he became overwhelmed by just the sheer continuality of his thoughts. They never ended, they just evolved into something different; his mind was like a spider web, everything connected.
Mike, at times, feared his mind wouldn't be able to process anything after a certain point. He was afraid of limits. He's afraid he's going to go cationic one day, and no one would ever hear from him again. Mike Ross, the one who thought too much.
It's not like he could help it though. And some days, he reveled in it. Being able to lose oneself without getting bored? That's something he likes. He loves that there's always something more to contemplate, more things he can do.
Sometimes, he feels like there is no limit on what he can do.
Sometimes, Mike day dreams, and to be honest, that's the only time he feels truly free.
It's very weird.