Have you ever felt so alone in this world, you thought that you may inevitably become swallowed by the horrible blackness that is depression? Are you suffering from manic-depression, bi-polar disease, commonplace depression, OCD or schizophrenia but wish to inspire the world with beautiful (or hideous) literature, inspired by your onset illness? Now's your chance! Add to this chain story by writing poetry or a creative literary response as a chapter to help spread awareness of "the crazies"!
Mania Is An Acid Trip To Hell
But then came the colors. Oh how did they sing for me; red and yellow. A vortex of somniferous illegitimacies did rain above my head and I was flung forth beneath a tidal wave of sweat. I could merely claw at my melting surroundings and hope that a god might spare me the indecency of being found in such a state. Hot flesh, cold blood then cold flesh, hot blood until I was nothing but the wax of a lonely candle stick upon my own sacrificial alter.
I gratefully drank the salt water that flowed freely from my tear ducts as if it were the sweetest of wines. I tore at my body looking for my soul only to find a crimson river beneath it all and found I cared little for it, thus I reduced my search to some disastrous realm beyond myself.
I stripped the earth of its vanities and strangled itâ€™s sanity until it mirrored my own curiosities. A faceless clown, a product of a petri dishâ€™s backwash, a women born without a womb; I was a sight in which brought the ego alive and hushed the fireâ€™s warming glow, a freak if you will.
Even still, there was a silent constant in which flowed through out, it soothed my feverish mind and catatonic body. It was what kept time, itâ€™s what made time.
First a drum, then the bass and soon to follow the entire orchestra of soft winds and strings did sing, but soon did the whispers. The walls were to join in later and the roof caved in with the baritones reverberating off of open windows. Alas there temple could not withstand the truth and it crumbled at the sound of veracityâ€™s call and with it died the priest and all the whispers.
But now I am here, not there and red and yellow disappeared. The chairs I lay beneath like a broken child tell me itâ€™s time to go. The mirror beacons me from my makeshift humanity and says my mortality is but an illusion and I shouldnâ€™t listen to the chairs.
The walls are caving in now though, and there is nothing left but to listen to the voices in my head.