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Patterns. Patterns of loneliness and despair, whirling around until they become jumbled lines upon the empty canvas of life. If being myself leads to being a whiny depressed b*****d who no one wants to listen to anymore, than whats the point? I frustrate more than I do anything else. Meaningless, pointless scribbles in the journal of one who has so often tread the edge of insanity, who has seen things no human should have to see, and has endured such terror at the hands of his invisible puppeteer. Jerked, through and through, the patterns of his madness creeping slowly, slowly, wreaking slow havoc upon normality. The great, slow bleed of dementia, flooding every corner of reason, swords of truth and justice, light and good, the shields of companions and loved ones, the barrier between me and them, all lay shattered on the ground, finally given up against the slow advance of the wall of dark. Enveloped ever so lovingly, tendrils weaving their cold festering touch against my skin. Delirium offers sweet peace, unable to tell good from bad, right from wrong, real from not. Frozen veins pulse weakly with the last dregs of spirit, the last stronghold of my mind surviving only by sheer will. Reality contorts, creating anger within. Fighting only brings such sorrow, even as the tears flow down my face now, as I sit and write. If being in the light is so good, then why must I trace that wretched, accursed line? Beckoned by the other side, I am at their mercy. I am not their master; they do not come when called. Alternating between apathy and sorrow, anger and happiness, depression and ecstasy. These scrawls come from places within me I have no control over, and further examination only shoves me further from the truth. I am prisoner within my own mind, only able to watch helplessly as the companions and loved ones flail against the bars of my cage, tears streaming down their faces, screaming as they reach desperately for me. Wrists cut to the bone from straining against the chains that bind them, ankles broken from the effort, I sink, weeping, to the floor, oblivious to their pleas. As I weep, I remove all barriers, baring my soul for the world to see. Some of the ons against the cage recoil, disgusted by what they see. For others, it simply strengthens their belief that I must be saved. Splayed out for all to see, weak, defenceless, I wonder what kind of existence this is. If only those others knew...
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