Patterned Walls

It's all just so busy.

I star fish the floor, limbs draping from wall to wall.

Such a tiny little box.

I'm stuck.

The walls are white to the unknowing eye,

But my eyes know.

I look deeper.

The spinning patterns tripping over eachother,

melding together to make one,

before dispersing to make something new.

These patterned walls are like my mind.

Only those who know will see.

Only those I trust will have a hope of understanding.

The hectic restlessness, spinning out of control.

The curious humming as my mind trips over itself,

inaudible to those who aren't between my ears.

I can try to explain what it's like to be in my head.

Words just don't do it justice.

From the outside, I'm a white wall.

Nothing.

Bland.

Bleak and weak.

Clinicaly polite.

But on the inside,

My head screams with colour and texture.

Sequences of moments, repeating over and over,

ever changing, ever evolving.

It never stops.

The whirring constellations emulating the outside world.

There's no method behind my madness.

I'm just mad.