Of Madness and Sanity

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Depression, my friend, has a way of stiffening your spirits and coaxing your sanity to madness.

 

The other day I drew three penises over my poetry to stop it from screaming and reminding me of a week’s heartache and deliria. The same day I smacked this seven-year-old kid in the face who had enough balls to mimic my slow heavy steps and mock my woeful sighs. Or atleast that is what I think he did.

 

My friends tell me that my disrupted hair and dreadful eyes make me look like some sick, deranged, on-the-loose serial killer who just lost his virginity to a ninth grade school girl; and the only thing I can fathom telling them is to go fuck themselves.

 

Because this feeling of being immersed in a sense of constant emotional crisis inevitably wrecks my mind and brings my make-believe fortress of a self-assured defence crashing down upon me like the Walls of Jericho.

 

Because sometimes, not having a familiar voice to hear at 2 A.M. hurts just as much as the poems that I try to erase from my memory that I once wrote for my lover with a perfectly sound beating heart.

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Because it is hard enough that life has its fiends ready to rampage onto my roots of existence like a goddamn meteorite and leave me crumbling to a lump of flesh that reeks of nothing but failures and sore midnight cigarettes.

 

And after all this bedlam, the last thing I want to hear is the sound of some pseudo-intellectual moron telling me how insignificant my problems are compared to world terrorism or the growing ozone hole over the Antarctic continent, and how my morning breath makes him retch to his gut in pity and disgust.

 

I heard a writer once say that only words turn loneliness to solitude. So last night, I wrote a letter to a friend I hadn’t met in over a year. I didn’t write about the broken pieces of myself or the shambles that my life was in. Rather, I fell into a swoon of happy memories each of which I inked with suprising resiliance.

 

And almost instantly, I felt a tiny little screw tighten itself somewhere beneath the impossibly dense labyrinths and layers of my skin.

 

It has been 19 hours since, and I have with me two more letters, one to my brother and the other to my imaginary soulmate, and a few thousand words impregnated on paper, all of which seems like a huge therapeutic chaos dancing before my eyes, and after a long time sitting still in silence with my words, I smile.

 

 


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