Blindly thrown 1000 vaguely similar realities, I move frantically through the night. My vision renders the world incomprehensible and offers competing images of what the dark world around me seems to be. All I think that I know is in direct conflict with the world around me. As if the only truths ever known to me were recently discovered to be false. I see hundreds of blue points of light all mystically blinking simultaneously. I feel terror grasp my heart as I struggle to come to grips with the reality I find myself in. Suddenly, I glance off of a hard, cool surface and nearly fall from the sky. I recovered my path through the midnight air for only a few moments before another unpierceable barrier obstructs my flight pattern in this phantasmagorical realm. The terror I feel in the pit of my being only escalates. The longer I live, the more frantic I become, and predictably, the more frequent my collisions become. Each is more painful than the last. They leave my sides quivering with paroxysms of agony.
I am on the very cusp of madness. I am on the edge of a unrecoverable fall that would lead to utter desolation of my conscious. I fear that I may have already teetered off of the precipice. That I may have unwittingly tumbled into madness already, and that the despair I find myself in now is a product of my condition. I fear because I believe the decline into true madness blurred and without true distinction. The only items by which one may mark the journey are the beginning and the end, and I would wager that once one has stumbled across the finish line, they would be unable to discern the status of their mental health. I presume that they would be pleasurably ignorant of their unfortunate erraticism. But in that proposal, I find a horrible possibility: I am already mad. Maybe we are all mad, only immune to the reality of our individual madness because of our madness itself. Each of us sees a a different segment of the population that is afflicted--some more severely than others. It does seem a happy fate: blissfully ignorant of all but one's self.
Truth is an unknown privilege that has not graced my presence for an indeterminate period of existence. I have lost sight of all of the constants that I vaguely recall from my past life, if there ever was one. I seem to believe that things weren't always this way; that once, a broad and illuminating source of light guided my progress and allowed my nimble avoidance of obstacles. That in a distant past, I had truth. I have lost it all now. I have nothing but a the continual thud of my body against the immovable boundaries that surround me. Time has almost altogether fled me, and in it's stead left me with an existence that I liken to hell. I question whether I am there now. Trapped in an inescapable loop of agony and fear. But nigh! I do feel that the air grows colder now. I welcome the numbness that accompanies this newfound partner of my muddled mind. It gives me hope that my torment may have a conclusion in one of two possibilities. Firstly, the decline of the temperature marks the forward progress of time and that eventually time will come to a close. Time reminds me that I still exist in a physical form and that physical form must die, thusly granting me my freedom. Sweet death! It is a delightful prospect that is accompanied by morbid silence. A silence that extends so far into the future that I have trouble considering whether the metaphysical could support a conscious for such a long-winded account of silence. The second situation which would grant me my liberty is merely a permutation of the first: my experience of cold alerts me that indeed do have a physical form, and as science reckons, all physical forms rely upon some measure of heat for their prolonged survival. In time, therefore, my form would be granted repose and I would enter the lyceum of the mute.
The other possibility that I, until now, have attempted to evade is the more likely of the options. Namely, it would be that I am already dead. That I have been robbed of the stillness that I covet so officiously. The horror of this possibility is enormous. It entails that I would be sentenced to an eternal elongation of my current existence. Each undefinable event of the addition of pain and discombobulation indiscriminate from the last other than the heightened sense of pain that I experience in the dungeon that envelopes me now. I break now. I can no longer perpetuate the lie of the possibility of escape. I am lost. The buzzing that haunts my ears is syncopated only by the nauseating blows that wrack my mind.
Food for thought, my friends.
~V 1.0~
