What is it about madness that scares us. What is it about going mad that makes us feel totally confused, wrecked and without borders. What are the things we find in ourselves that confuse, distort and make the dark come.
Some of the darkest times I’ve found myself searching for something larger than myself. When the dark comes, I feel it, I know the reverberation in my soul. I feel little pin pricks going up and down my spine.
It’s these pin pricks that remind me of my sanity and fearful of my dark.
I’ve written things that are darker than I thought I could go. They’re like nightmares pulled from my soul, lost in the tranquility of my life. They come in claws of pain and chasms of black.
I shrug them off after the writing is over, but fearful of being dragged down with the story into the madness that comes like copious amounts of violent strikes.
These are the lightning strikes of my soul, the chaotic laughter of my mind. The madness permeates me, thrives in me and oftentimes sublets different pieces of me.
These sublets are the refuge for my stories. They lend themselves gracefully to my mind. Letting tenants come and go as they’re needed.
I see them, their clothes disheveled, their hair oftentimes a mess. They wander through my streets waiting for their chance to grab the next victim, waiting for a flood of pain to hit and activate their hunger.
What does this mean? Where am I headed?
Falling down the drain, I see my life, my past and what happened as a child. I feel the pain, the horrible pain drawn out in currents of red and black. They spell out who I am, who I’ll be and they often scream for me to let the madness reign.
I honestly don’t know where the words in this post came from. I must have harnessed something. I don’t have an end of post question.
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