Ad Schism

Book II • Paradise Lost

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Madness is difficult to decipher. Sometimes it was obvious, and other times not at all. Other times it was nigh impossible to tell; you couldn't see a difference — it only appeared. Some days even the most stable individuals faltered and what could you do?

Even they forget there was ever a problem.

To escape it, that crumbling state of mind, some will find freedom by embracing it, no matter how misguided that seems. After all, in total darkness it was obsolete to try and search for any remnant of light. Simply put, you must succumb to shadows, and believe you were found.

Of course it's easiest to do when nobody knows you personally. They've got nothing to compare you too, they just see the world you weave right here and now. Especially in the media's eye — for everyone knew of Oliver, they all knew his publicity and the world tied it together with bits of truth and scandal. Here and there, all glued together by rumor mills that color blank spaces in deliciously juicy shadings. All it takes really is a shift in the perspective; turning a grin sinister with the right lighting, or a phrase aggressive with the right writing. In a world as illusory and exploitive as this it was both a blessing and a curse — depending on whose perspective was being manipulated, that was.

In his time in the lime light, Oliver had become a master of manipulation, aware of the subtleties needed to turn a simple man into the evenings magnate. With the right kind of company, he turned from pauper to prince, and from a loving man to a gangster. There were textures required to present class, and colors needed to send the right message. It was eerily satisfying in a way. The smallest twist of words could write a script of rags to riches, or biblical proportions into pious perils, and in Oliver's case, a tender artist to an extravagant lord. Money and fashion redefined him.

Of course, it was more difficult when your own perspective started to shift beyond your control. That was when the world became a difficult game to play... when it felt like you were the one being played.

Wars within your head raged like the ones outside and everything seemed to be so deep and uncomfortably interconnected, like it could all be brought down with the wrong pull — it was a terrible game of Jenga.

See if all the strings were tied with your own, how could you pull one without meddling another? Perhaps that was why he opted for a cold heart, for it was far too dangerous to add more strings and the heart was much too painful to warm back up.

Nevertheless, he found that all things could be overridden. Enough power could persuade even the most stubborn knots to straighten out. In that case he had found his personal solace sipping the cocktail of high fashion soirees, power plays, and party drugs.

Psychedelia seemed to complement psychosis...

This was when Oliver could find freedom from the woes of his life, and though it was all induced, he could escape from the clamor within his head, if only for but a little while.

Especially in light of that recent catastrophe, this was ideal. He had absolutely no desire to hear all of his thoughts burning and searing within him and he certainly did not want be in the states, no less in Chicago — at the source? Fuck that. All the chatter would be far too loud and media wise...  if it had not yet been already, the beans would surely be spilt. They always were.

So, by the time the morning light had peaked above the horizon, he'd already booked a flight to Milan, where Andre, one of his closest friends, would welcome him with open arms. It was a not too often that this occurred, because of Andre's corporations and Oliver's commitments they weren't able to kick it as often as they used to.