Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. Oh, there's the end. There we go.
Sorry for not posting yesterday. I was sent to bed before the internet could cooperate with me. Here we are, though. I made this last night, promise.
This is the path he takes to insane. This is how he chooses to begin. He filters all his pictures until he can't recognize anyone, not even himself. Saturate then posterize, play around with color curves until he can't see the lines. Then, he burns all the papers in his room: goodbye to letters and billing statements and test papers. Just ashes in the rubbish now, no use for sentimentality, no use remembering any words. Soon, the books will go as well. But those might take time.
Burn all his bridges -- who needs love when you have solitude and emptiness and chaos. The voices in his head, all his own, tell him he needs to take things seriously. He says no. He takes them all in, then, everyone who tried to get to know him. And then he wears them out until none of them have the energy to put up with his mind games. He's only so glad to see them go.
They should know better.
In his head, he floats endlessly, towards a nothingness that tastes like cotton candy. And he sees faces of people he's sure he's met but never mattered enough to care about. Mostly, it's just his voice but it sounds like different people. After awhile, everything feels like gravy and gracelessness. He sees a light blue that fades into a sea green, and soon he is wrapped in years of sleep.
Off to the subconscious and there's nothing to drown in. Not enough loves or cares or memories. None important enough. So instead, it's a black and white film reel of people on the streets and of couples he doesn't know and of children he's never met. So many clips -- none starring him. And then a lot of fire: fire in the woods, fire in the back of a truck, fire jumping out of a burning house, fire on birthday candles, fire on pictures in a trash bin, fire on bodies, fire on hearts and souls and lives.
Hearts and souls and lives on fire. All completely pointless
but they sure looked happy.
Spent in matrimony to his bones and his aches and himself, basically. Because something destroyed him, something he chose to ignore and repress.
Back to the plan. Pills, then. Loads of pills. He wants cocktails, dozens and dozens in every color. It should be pretty and pastel, and the blues and the violets and the sunshine yellows should go together. So that they all burn and fizz in the acid together. Maybe they'll get along. Run in the blood, veins, ravage the heart. Anything. Everything. Go. Do it. Done.
COLORS. FLYING. JESUS... and then nothing.
A swirling sensation, calmness, numbing wholesome vacancy. Null void zero.
