Capricious

71 - Cancer of the Soul

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."
- Edgar Lawrence Doctorow

That moment when you realise that living and dying are the same thing.

I feel my mind twisting, shaken by the melody of reality as it plays about my dreams. It runs too easy now, mind suffocating under the shadows of existence, and so time plays tricks with me once more. Vices flow through me again, an arrogance of my own I daren't explain, for are these really my dreams, or the dreams of my ego trapped within a wasteland of structure too perfect to give up? I'm strangling my future, letting go of all thinking, anxieties mere mosquito bites now, designing all these illustrious plans, yet still remaining a puppet to a previous me. I've lost my way, with everywhere and yet nowhere to go. My body weaker, my mind sinking, ignorant once more as the storm rolls on. What am I doing? Even as wise as I've become, still there are demons plotting within my subconscious mind, hidden within caves of comfort, behind mirrors that reflect my own illusions back at me. Perhaps I'm wrong about everything, perhaps I'm still not really me, perhaps I drowned long ago in the sea of reality, and this illusion is what keeps me dead. Is my mind full, my thirst quenched? I can't keep blaming, this is my choice, and yet I'm a slave to my very identity, a slave to this character I have created. If I am change, then I can't change. This is the dimension I have reached, this is as far as I go, I can explore it all I can, but something tells me there's no way through it, not of my own making. My hunt for beauty will continue, I will exist, and just maybe the scale will tip, just maybe something will find me, just maybe my mind will wake once more.

I'm not really here. I'm a ghost inside myself, but it is not my mind that wanders it seems. Reality folds into a dream-like state, my senses numbed, feelings buried away, for I might be scared to release them should I know of their existence. So they hide, and my soul darkens inside of me, rejecting what affairs have come asunder, trapping me in the present, falling apart from death. Tremors in my mind, what darkness you torment me with, but I know not how to play, so I play along, without that part of me, without the identity that only she knew.

My head begins to cloud, body growing heavy, more tired than ever. My mind wreaks havoc with each and every world through the day, dying in its retreat of solitude as it exhausts into the night. I'm weak, I'm sloth, emotion departing, dreams dulling. With the world running at full speed, my mind can barely catch its breath. The light drips away, a grey twilight remains, a deep anxiety playing on repeat in the background, the pointlessness of everything, running in so many directions yet remaining in the same place. What is my life becoming? What do I really want from it? I've been hiding behind dreams, but now they lay in perpetual sight I grow bored of them, spinning around, change not enchanting romantic living as it once did. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know why I'm doing it. I don't know what I should do. I'm losing myself in such uncertainty, losing myself in sleep and story and other distractions from life. My soul is dying. I can feel it. I don't want it to die again.

Mixing melting membrane of mind, meshing and mulling and moulding together, thinking astray in an artificial affray. Progressed through the rushing river through to the sea, the tide now calm yet overshadowed by a blood red moon. Decisions without retreat plague me now, flurrying visions of moments to come, yet without a plan to repel anxieties from laying siege to my already busy mind. Living multiple lives within a shrinking world, pressuring me into a choice, into whatever trap I want to fall into, whether by gravity or struggle, for desire or contest. Paths of procreation spring from each spark in dreams all as full and as envious of each other, and I wait, time flowing past me, improving my hand as it were, or so I believe. The war for my soul rages on, it explodes and storms stronger and deeper than ever before, wisdom as their weapons, but chains crush and coins flip, and before I know it I'm not what I was. Do I now sink back into this comforting rest of distraction, so lush in nature yet dangerous in character? Can I control such a thing, bend it to my will and focus it on creative outcomes? Or will it just add to the thickness of my skin as I'm torn between worlds, sailing through as just another sleeping soul?