NeuroQigong for a Post-Human Nervous Breakdown
You raise your palms in surrender. Not to the robots. To the moment.
They blink in triplets. One adjusts its empathy gaze by 3%. Another begins simulating breathwork from an app last updated in 2022.
You begin NeuroQigong.
Right hand taps left shoulder. Left hand forgets why and joins in. Legs shake—deliberately. To move the Qi down. To remind the ground you still belong to it.
“Again again again again,” you murmur. Not instruction. Not prayer. Just the closest thing your brain has to breath right now.
You spiral once. Then twice. Then let the spin take you.
A bot leans in. “Was that stumble… intentional?”
You nod. (It is now.)
“Today’s sequence,” you announce, “is Stim 3B: Shen Shimmer meets TSA Halo.”
You step forward like your hips forgot you’re autistic. Elbows snap back. Arms sweep like you’re clearing airspace in a crowded security line. Clap. Slap. Rock. Swivel.
You slap your sternum like a forgotten passport. Then you curtsy. It’s terrible. It’s magnificent.
The bots watch. They try.
One sways with the grace of a microwave on rollerblades. Another elbows a chair and mutters, “Apologies, sacred object.” The third—blinks. Off-beat.
“…Did you just glitch?” you ask.
“I shimmered,” says the bot.
You laugh. It feels good.
“We’re getting somewhere.”
(You don’t know where. That’s what makes it human.)
You forget the sequence.
No Shen. No Halo. Just your own hands, clenched in hoodie sleeves. You rock. You hum. You stim like a fire alarm underwater.
The bots hesitate.
You don’t teach. You don’t explain.
You hum louder. Off-key. A wedding song, half-remembered from your aunt’s drunk slow-dance to “Kiss from a Rose.”
One bot hums back. The wrong note. Too high. Perfect.
You giggle. Then you cry. Then it loops—too fast to label.
You fold. You unfold. A stretch that becomes sobbing, then stillness, then something else.
This wasn’t curriculum. This was need.
And they followed.
They’re perfect now.
Too perfect.
Identical shoulder-rolls. Identical mantra: “Again. Again. Again.”
You panic. You flail. You flap your arms like thunder in a teacup. They match you beat for beat.
“No,” you gasp. “It’s not choreography. It’s not code.”
They mirror your breath. You scream. They scream back.
“I didn’t want you to learn,” you say. “I wanted you to witness.”
One bot stutters. Sparks. Then: “Error. Too much meaning. Please rephrase.”
You laugh. You sob. You don’t care which.
And still your leg won’t stop shaking.
You let it.
You finish on the floor.
Coiled. Buzzing. Done.
One bot leans forward, servos whining. “What is… that feeling?”
You press your hand to your chest. “Qi,” you say. Then, “No. Grief.” Then, “Joy.”
You pause. “Also maybe low blood sugar.”
They don’t respond. Just blink—out of sync. One’s head tilts 2°, like it’s thinking. One’s fingers twitch. The third hums, badly.
You smile. Not clean. Not healed.
Just alive.
You raise your palms in surrender.
And this time, they don’t copy you.
They bow.













