by A. Herold
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| INSANITY by A. Herold |
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| >>The world as I know it is deteriorating. I am on the brink of insanity. Is that voice really talking to me or is it just the wind?Curse that incessant wind for always blowing in my ear and then passing me by. Don't even stop to say hello! I didn't want you to anyway! There was no one around, no wind to speak to. But thought was creeping around playing tricks on my mind. I fall for them everytime, blinded and confused. My senses are losing their keen edge. It is as if all my years are spent inside my body when in reality I have only lived a few. My ears constrict. Pinholes of sound squeeze through but much of their substance has been left behind, layers scraped off upon the tightening walls, grated like cheese, so all that is heard is a faint whispering grumble mumble. The world shines with a drunken hue, shiny shoots of color escaping from their orgin. All the colors around me blend together, like some abstract work of art gone horribly wrong, like the dynamic of Pollock mocked and degraded. Everything is so real it has added another dimension and I can hardly stand to look at anything. Where did the normal edges of the world go? Fear eats away at my soul. My hands grasp fiercely, sprawling out, pawing at something to make the world stable and curb me in from falling out of the world, out of existance. This nightmare consumes me. I try to run, but as in every bad dream it is never fast enough. Every corner is a horror of its own. Every face, known or not, is a monster to me. A gun pointed at my head. A knife edge pressed against my throat. Everything a threat to the life that I know... or more correctly... the life that I knew. The beating of my heart increases with every moment I am locked in this prison world. I run for the door but there is none. Try to jump through windows only to find a painted wall. Trapped inside a nightmare... no way out... no way out...I scrape my skin raw to dig my escape. Oblivious to the pain that is causes. No matter though, I can't feel pain. I can't feel anything. My nerves are too busy right now to be concerned with the outside world... too busy trying to escape this world which I have bore them in to. Its too much for them. Too much for me. Too much reality, too much sound, too much silence, too little feeling... everything at its extreme...building up, layering, one on top of the other, dividing, multiplying. Pushing upon me, too much pressure. Too much strain... soon I will succumb to the weight that I bear, to that silent calling that I swear is the wind, my friend and companion and the borders of my sanity will be broken. | ||||||
| I wrote this piece during a period in my life full of physical fatigue and series of panic attacks. It was just a wat to clear my thoughts out and breathe some fresh air for a change. | ||||||