My brain is fracturing. Head full of confusion. Mind full of chaos.
Whirlingspinningmessofcoloursvoicesnoisesemotionsthoughtsdesires. All blend together into uncertainty. Disorganised. Disorder. UGLY.
Whirlingspinningmessofcoloursvoicesnoisesemotionsthoughtsdesires. All blend together into uncertainty. Disorganised. Disorder. UGLY.
My surroundings lose meaning as I am buffeted by an internal storm of screaming noise and chaos. A film of confusion covers my eyes and I am blind to the pain my silence causes. Focus turned inward, scrambled attempts to order the pandemonium.
What do I want?
Perfection. Beauty. Serenity.
What will I do to achieve?
Anything.
A Greek chorus of voices in my head cry out accusingly, “Anything? Liar. What do you REALLY want?”
I don’t know, I thought I wanted those...
Happiness ...Acceptance? Sanity?
“NONSENSE, you THRIVE on unhappiness, it makes you feel ARTISTIC. You’re PATHETIC” the chorus spit venomously, harsh words easily slithering through my defences. My brain always knows how to hurt me the most. Their voices degenerate into incoherent shouts of derision and disbelief - an entire audience of mockery.
QUIET, PLEASE! I’m trying to think.
Need to THINK. Focus. Concentrate. CONTROL MYSELF.
I must have control.
I must have control.
I must have control.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I am a broken record, repeating senselessly... Hands slam against sides of my head, over and over and over, I claw at my scalp, face and arms, nails leaving faint crescents and red welts on my skin. A physical manifestation of a vain attempt to hold my mind together? Fault lines. Weak areas in my crust.
Eyes closed tight.
I must not lose control.
My ears ring in the surrounding silence.
What do I want?
Perfection. Beauty. Serenity.
What will I do to achieve?
Anything.
A Greek chorus of voices in my head cry out accusingly, “Anything? Liar. What do you REALLY want?”
I don’t know, I thought I wanted those...
Happiness ...Acceptance? Sanity?
“NONSENSE, you THRIVE on unhappiness, it makes you feel ARTISTIC. You’re PATHETIC” the chorus spit venomously, harsh words easily slithering through my defences. My brain always knows how to hurt me the most. Their voices degenerate into incoherent shouts of derision and disbelief - an entire audience of mockery.
QUIET, PLEASE! I’m trying to think.
Need to THINK. Focus. Concentrate. CONTROL MYSELF.
I must have control.
I must have control.
I must have control.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I am a broken record, repeating senselessly... Hands slam against sides of my head, over and over and over, I claw at my scalp, face and arms, nails leaving faint crescents and red welts on my skin. A physical manifestation of a vain attempt to hold my mind together? Fault lines. Weak areas in my crust.
Eyes closed tight.
I must not lose control.
My ears ring in the surrounding silence.
I quake. Control is a memory.
1 comment:
Unfortunately, the best art comes from the spirals of depression and gloom. Perhaps unhappiness is creativity. My best writing/art came out of my depressive periods.
Also, added you to the Skinny Pact. Thanks for joining up, Hollow.
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