Thoughts like a piano’s keys filter through both my conscious and subconscious, striking a chord that only the demons of my own creation can hear. Flittering fingers plucking the keys of my own discord, disquieted, frightened, the black and ebony reminiscent of an Icelandic tribe. In this case, ebony representing good memories and black representing bad. My black cup runneth over while the ebony is so difficult for me to enjoy as the darkness reigns.
Though I fear I am without control as they filter through me like blood, water, neurons firing and synapses attempting shock therapy. Temporary relief from memories that deviate from that thin line.
The deprivation of sleeps causing hallucinations of the most horrible originations. Apparitions that beckon me to death, a death I die a thousand times or more daily, as I struggle with the infinite and the quantum. It does not get easier, as I age, as more questions mount and the answers become more reticent.
A less than subtle requirement for this fractured mind to put itself back together again only to discover that the final piece is missing. Where is that piece? What is that piece? As I throw my Black Dog a bone I am left to consider more than a poetic soul should have to bear. Though I do. I cry out to Apollo, God (He/She/It/They), Oracle, Prophets, where pray tell is my burning bush?
A nightmare, the nightmare, nightmares that harm my own personal recollection of self. Reflections on Reflections.
Mirror images of a life once lived but in the pursuit of the joy of others where now there is no joy that I can submit. For no longer will I subjugate my own self-preservation so that another may soar. It is my turn to allow these apparitions and nightmares to guide me, freeing me, to unleash a furious torment of words that dance across your eyeballs like Fred and Ginger. Those same words that handcuff me like an as yet prosecuted fool.
When at the witching hour, the stroke of midnight, I’m yet to become anew the pumpkin that cradles me and prevents the world from the stringy innards of a dastardly conviction to which you are not a party. No. The spirits of my ancestors and the voices in my head, press me forth, through dialogues that would confuse even the most wise of sage, unnerve even the most prolific of prophets and may in fact be the desecration of the godly appreciation of all that I hold dear.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is the lunatic fringe of my own self awareness as I trod ever closer to the demise of sanity, slipping into a world where I am no longer king but instead jester, holding court over my own self. I and I and I agree for once though my fingers will continue…
And flicker they have. Leading me back to life. Leading me to a land far, far away from home, to find a new home, a place where I belong, a place where I can truly live and not merely exist.
Freed now from the torment of pharmaceutical intervention and instead liberated by the triumphant power of requited love. Given back my life in the most unexpected of ways. By you, those children, those that have released me from a lifelong burden of sorrow.
While the bitch still barks, and is black as night, I have reason, meaning and purpose and this has given me back my life and I am living it. No longer afraid. No longer hiding in the corner but instead standing on a soap box teaching the most wonderful life lessons that I have learned to those that need it most. The next generation.
So while the night is long and the terror is real I am pleased beyond measure to admit that the fringe of this lunatic, while still intact, has harnessed his potential and found the will to carry on, at all costs, for those who hold me dear.