Spasms of the Mind

It is a silent delirium, an invisible sting. It thievings the sanctuary of sleep, leaving a hollow zombie in its wake. A swarm of whys and wherefores, of coulds and shoulds. Only the ignorant, it seems, are immune to this rot.

I am well-acquainted with my soul—its brittle edges and its iron cores. I know the wounds I deal myself simply to master the pain. At times, my sanity unravels, or perhaps it simply tires of me and wanders off. There are days when I crave nothing but the silence of my own shadows.

I hardly know you—you, my midnight specter who tramples my rest, evicting me from dreams after a mere four hours, leaving the ghost of exhaustion etched upon my skin. A nomad’s life without the feast. I long to succumb to a deep slumber and wake when the calendar has turned its pages.

Where will I stand when years have passed? The marks I hammer into this childhood soil do not erode; they stand defiant, though I walk this path alone. There goes the shadow of a man who was once there, yet never truly seen.

The song is a dirge, a descent into the sunless well. It hums of severance and scorched bridges. Who else carries the weight of this care? The winter has settled in my marrow, and my eyes betray the chill—yet I reconstruct myself. With every bitter, measured drop of grief, I seek to bribe my way into invisibility. I stow myself away. Today you are blind to me; yesterday, you were nothing. At last, I am departing.

I have been carved by the jagged tools of intolerance and ignorance. I refuse to bleed for the profane any longer. I hear the walls whispering, secrets hissed over shoulders, a clarity so sharp it mirrors paranoia.

I write for a ghost audience. In this wicker grave of loose leaves, we—the plural versions of my "I"—tread the razor's edge between perdition and paradise. I find the rose within the thorn, a reversal of fate in a fleeting world.

One day, a greater force may still these hands, silencing the spasms of my mind upon the page. When that darkness falls, I suspect my fatigue will be so profound that I shall greet the silence as a friend.

The hour has struck. I bolt the remaining doors and latch the rusted windows. I take my feelings by the hand and walk out to meet a misunderstood destiny.

These circular, somber piano keys are a vortex that anchors my madness. Perhaps I am not the "normal" man the world perceives. But here I am: overturning the table, scattering the chairs, wagering the last of my soul. I cast myself into the swells—shaking with fear, yet certain of the salt.

I am my own temple, my own tether, my own deity. The weight within is a dense fog, thudding against the cage of my ribs. My words are a map of detours and jagged halts. But the brakes have failed now. I am waiting for the wind to shift. For the song to change.

You see the echoes of my hollow screams; you read the ink of my hollow screams—a frequency only I can hear. You turn from the truth, and I turn from the lies that stunt my spirit. It is a frantic, beautiful undoing.

I could end this story today. But I will return.

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