An Ordinary Mind
My mind was absent. Sometimes, I wonder if it ever really existed? I try to think back upon more carefree times, but of those I can't recall. I can not recall a single one. All that I know upon this day, is a past of the arcane. I want to cry, but I've lost total feeling, that thing that each man should feel. My senses have all closed in upon themselves. While this may seem dismal to you, it provides me the loneliest of places to stay, albeit my safe place. I feel so at home here, and if the letters that I write upon on this page could fancy a possible language of the undiscovered, then maybe I could clarify my feelings about my state.
The infestation of everything ordinary ran its course and I am now the fool that treads with a worthless soil underneath my feel, all without a single, satisfiable purpose. My footsteps are innocent, maybe the only innocent part of me, or at least my senses. They have no memory and wash away upon the next rain, unlike my mind in which the rain never attains. That which erases my prints in the sand only teases me inside. Excuses and I are both too codependent, counting upon the other to denigrate our person. We've been devoted partners since embarking down this road of hell that I'm proud to call life.
I crave madly for things, matters that have to escape the thoughts of the truly content. For I am not one of them, my ideas emerge the grotesque, multiplying fear by the Nth degree, only they find solitude in my being. Is not one mans darkness, another mans lustrous day? Of this though, I'm still untroubled.
One of my greatest cravings is to reach inside of my own head, peeling back each layer of darkness that blankets my brain. I see each layer as if it were translucent. You though, would see each as opaque, clouded by demons that should gnaw away at ones soul. Each layer being darker, more despicable than the other. The poignant layers smothering all of which was once decent. It has been so long that I don't know if I recollect the established anymore, the taste has become lackluster on both sides. As it gets difficult to peer through this colorless fog, angering my eyes as they try to reason with my inner being, I remain hushed.
A muddled voice speaks, "Don't waste your meaningless time." I acknowledge this as the existing voices present each minute of each day that speak to me from outside my mind. For they are also my confidante in my madness in this room with four corners. The spoken words audible only to my ears, could overtake the noise of a thousand horses, each rushing into a senseless battle. These ears, they ascertain the chapter of my situation, my strenuous predicament. Still, I would not take back a single, solitary day. Please, understand this, no matter how grueling it may be. For lunacy is only found by the man who lacks the disease.
No matter how many of the darkened layers I may peal, I still envision the sadistic. It boils inside of me, seeking a way out. The voices leading the march of my turmoil. The skin on my bones being the only obstacle containing it. Oh- but to liberate each sense, is a release of which I have difficulty illustrating in words for you. Letters on paper simply aren't enough. To conjure up an example can only be described by that of a volcanic nature. That surrender of pressure, the hesitation, the pent up angst, all opening the door for the gratification that I seek, and sometimes that escape doesn't present itself at the doorstep of my deficient soul. The circumstances of the wicked often require the needed intervention of my happening. It's own division to escape the hellish confinement shouts for an assisting object. One that scores my skin into a maze of the bother, but I give birth to each mark, letting the warm flow of my own blood flow across my skin. That force hindering my mind of earlier, instantly dissolves onto my sleeve. The sting lasting only seconds, the independence lasting hours, while the scars of the reminder, a lifetime of beauty.
It's not that I choose to control my destiny, or vice versa, but to celebrate life and its possession. For sometimes my most radical dreams are the dreams of being the ordinary, only for those dreams to diminish as I find myself developing into my characteristic dreams. This in itself, could never be more beautiful. A breathtaking wonder- this is what I view it to be.
