With hairs on neck bristled, I kept reading. The rhythm of the words made me want to move and the seduction of the narrative caused my lip to quiver. The lights low and the silence surrounding me creating a vacuum, I found myself victim, or rather slave to my own contorted ways of thinking. Alone, I shuttered at the ideas proposed and ran a numbed finger across the page. The wind outside convinced a tree branch to scrape the window creating a friction between my peace and I. I sprung to me feet expecting more of an intrusion, but there was nothing more. It was all a clever distraction for everything to slip away. The colors, shapes, and sounds blended into a clamor of unease. I erased the unwanted and continued to adjust myself properly to a faulty idea that I existed for a reason, if I truly did exist. The soft walls beckoned me as they began to bleed down to the cold, white tile that was my bed. I put my fingers to the trail of descending life and wonder how far down the rabbit hole I am, if there was ever a rabbit hole.
Do you know of a clear path to euphoria?
Disbelief, in any form, is denial of the undeniable due to the idea of superiority to ones self when faced with the obstacle of fairness.
I am still thirsty.
The fingers on my right hand tap a syncopated frustration while my left hand, oh that left hand, decides it wants to strangle the life out life before it dies to be reborn as more life and death never comes. Oh sweet release never comes.
Am I rambling?
I notice the book. Not calling, but screaming to me, “You wretch!” I know its opinion, I am that opinion. I never asked for any of these treats, they just fell next to me and decided to keep me company.
Ha, they said there was no way out. They didn’t count on this. Who are they by the way? All I can make out are white coats and black shoes that click clack down what I assume is some kind of corridor in some kind of wing of some kind of building where I may or may not be.
But I digress and instead look for salvation in the soft pages full of lush metaphors and lyrical prose much like silk. I can’t tell how much time I have squandered if I have squandered time and if indeed time does exist because I’m not afforded a time piece. They say I could hurt myself.
They think that wouldn’t be very nice if I did that.
However, there is only so much they know, and what little they do know won’t help. My saviour, brother, and lover in one seeks me out.
I alone wait to be alone no more.