Tuesday, November 20, 2012

press my nose to the glass around your heart

I've always been at peace with my own madness.

I haven't looked to medication. I haven't looked to professional conversationalists. I haven't consulted friends; I haven't pondered trite works of self-help; I haven't cast myself into the abyss of religion. I've ridden the waves wheresoever they took me, bounding ecstatically into the forest after every winking will-o-the-wisp, and I have yet to be disappointed by the decision.

It's not that I hate convention, or that I'm inherently contrary. It's just that I see so much beyond the false horizon of supposed-tos and really-oughtas. I refuse to waste the opportunity to play out there.

You're mad, too. Stark raving, with the starkness carefully shrouded and the raving bound and compressed. The crackling light of it draws me ever closer.

I wonder if you'll ever let me get a good look.

Oh. And.

No, I don't know what I'm doing.

Thanks for not asking.

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