Silence is hushed yet deafening

Intrepid soliloquy to muted isolation

Lingering to nullify the crux of cause

Endless provocation of mindlessness

Numbing profundity of disassociation

Ceasing never to oust substantiality

Eagerly awaiting my demise.

Cindy Calder, 08.30.24

I surveyed you from a distance...

There was something in your wake...

Like a print on frigid windows

When the heavy days change shape...

I was squeezing at this problem

'twixt the corners of my brain

'til I caught sight of your feathers,

Lying molted in the rain...

In this TV dinner landscape...

With its lakes and reservoirs...

I came down to seek asylum

From my fatalistic mores...

As the retina is the mind's eyes,

For a world that disappears

Quicker then the soul can contrive

Lost in sands of yesteryears...

I had glimpsed you in gold sunlight

Reaching out like time had stopped...

But your eyes were like two funnels

Where a thousand pins had dropped...

I fell down on my two knees, and hit

The beach like crashing Schooners...

The darkness swallowed up my wreck,

As I witnessed death come sooner...

I surveyed you from a distance...

There was something in your wake...

Like a print on frigid windows

When the heavy days change shape...

You were broken, you were battered,

But from eyes of shattered glass

You appeared like some new promise

Of the Seventh Wonder class...

Now upon the white sand surface,

Like a freckle on some rump,

Only a head remains where waves

Collide to quell the writhing stump...

And as torrents of disaster crash,

Ballooning wasted lungs,

I envision your sweet mammaries

Like the bells of kingdom come...

8/9/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #2

if I dig too hard, I fear

my conflict will surface

far closer, than thought

--with Madness--

On the other's side

the bruised night.

Like a guard dog

I let it lie.

as parasite

hanging on

this side of Life

I have grown to know

depth of hunger

buried

closest to the soul

the dig that comes

from within

disguised as surface

itch

epidermal

drawing hands

in fevered prayers

of abstract design

to sense and curfew

I'd like to surfeit

the appetite

towards apparent

enlightenment, and

creative refreshment

or entertainment,

as such

I've taken host

broken

body and blood

in madness,

partaking

...deeper...

and together,

we have suffered

08.05.2024

"If I dig too hard, I fear that Madness lies on the other side” - Alizee

challenge @AJAY9979

If I dig too hard, I fear that Madness lies on the other side.

But if Madness is on the other side, it doesn’t matter if I dig too hard or barely scratch the surface with my shovel. It will be revealed, despite the degree of force I apply. And why would I want to release Madness from its terra firma tomb? It was buried for a reason by someone, maybe even me. What’s the ultimate benefit of letting out Madness? And is it even there? Why am I digging in the first place?

I am fully aware that I’m standing in a hole, apprehensively removing earth. I know if I proceed, the hole will become so deep I won’t be able to climb out of it. And if I keep going after that, the hole will consume me. I’ll be buried alive. Yet, I’m still digging. Is making my own, inescapable depression in the ground a way of avoiding any curable depression I’m facing above the ground? Avoidance has piloted many round-trip flights to nowhere for me. Or is probing what’s beneath the compact dirt, even if it could be Madness, a better substitute for the reality I left exposed on land? Both seem like losing trade-offs, but I’ve already started. I rationalize I should keep going so I can find an implied Madness that may or may not present itself.

I’m digging knowing there’s a possibility I’ll come across Madness on the other side. This is like chasing fog. At first, it seems tangible because it’s physically obstructing my vision. Then I’m immersed in the nothingness. Disorientated, I’m unsure where I came from or which direction to pursue. If I wait long enough though, it gets burned off by the light of day. Keeping this information handy would help me for when the fog reassembles, or similar predicaments arise in the future. But I forget it.

That’s why I’m digging now. My fear-driven, uncorrected actions are also preventing me from realizing that not all the dirt I toss over my shoulder is escaping the ever-rising rim of the hole. Some of it hits the interior wall before avalanching back towards my feet. I’m oblivious that portions of my extracted dirt are ending up in holes of adjacent people, adding to the accumulation around their legs. And vice versa. We all fear Madness but continue performing the same repetitive motions in anticipation of finding it. We’re kindred spirits in the Brotherhood of Insanity.

So, why am I digging? Is Madness really lying on the other side of the hole? What exactly is on the other side of a hole? More dirt? Isn’t the other side of a hole just an extension of that hole? Or the terminus of a now completed tunnel? If so, there was never an other side for Madness to be on after all. Maybe it’s been beside me the entire time masquerading as fear, coercing me to keep digging knowing I’d never find it. This is the kind of manipulation Madness craves. It creates an illusion based on distress so you’ll ignore reason.

I’ve dug enough. I’m getting out of this hole and shaking off the dust covering my body. I’ll go stand on the excavated mound that used to fill my hole. There I’m elevated, not obstructed. I’ll have a better view and understanding of my actions. I will drop my shovel, leaving the fear of Madness behind. That’s why I’m not digging any more.

"If I dig too hard..."

I might drag up beads of blood,

that spill like rivers down my arm.

Cackle to my inner teenage self,

and twist a little in.

Curl over my arm, like a madman covets his spoils.

What could you call mad, if it's perfected to a feigned innocence that shines like pearlescent white plastic orbs on a table?

I think I could admire the blues and pink hues captured in the false pearls,

but I think that you'd like to think I was just some twisted bitch bent on a rage ready to fall off the bench groaning under my sliding feet.

Hooking my knife into their ears,

tearing their reputation to shreds and burning my own glass house down to the ground.

It's the glass fire we all seek to churn.

For what is madness when there isn't a loss of self preservation?

You're not insane until you're ready to burn it all,

to take everyone with you, but yes, "dig a little harder."

Cut me until I'm gasping for air.

Because I love the way your torture makes me hurt,

gives me internal scars that makes me a little more bent inside

like the crooked man over the crooked road, waiting for all the black to consume the world.

I swear to you, I'm not the monster you think I am.

The empty smile isn't one you'll find on my face.

It's only when the light fades from my eyes,

and we meet each other with that same cold ass stare.

After all, aren't we mirrors of one beast in the same?

I'm not insane.

I'm perfectly fine.

Let me fix my face.

Let me make it all right again.

I'm not insane.

I'm perfectly fine.

Let me fix my face.

Let me make it all right again.

When I was young, every single glance meant something, a single touch, a single smile, an accidental glaze of shoulders, a simple inquiry of how I am doing…I would magnify it into something big.

Maybe I was desperate or crazy. I was a big romantic, I dreamed of someone of my own who would turn my fantasies into my reality. Someone who would be outgoing, hold a conversation, a great host if we had a party and who would not mind my awkwardness.

But how could someone notice me when I didn't stand out? or even wanted to. I didn't fit the mold of a typical romantic interest, and my introverted nature made it hard for others to connect with me. I wasn't into social media, trends, makeup; I preferred the background. If someone showed interest in me, I would avoid them like plagues. My conversations felt forced, and my moods were unpredictable.

After trying tried too hard masking myself only to end up in disappointing relationships, I gave up. Maybe it was true that not all of us can find love. Perhaps there is a reason for the supportive, ever-present bestfriend in every story. There has be to that plain and unassuming character.