Sunday, November 2, 2014


My head is a garden gone to seed; my eyes are curtained windows of an abandoned house. If you stare too long you might see vague shadows move, and sometimes doubting your own sanity, you see an almost-face, a figure peering out, stir of indigo echoes in the cobwebbed stairs, a flutter. 
Losing one's mind is a cliché, these days, what with the grimy urban chaos, the seamless integration of communication through internet, it’s easy to imagine and portray a carefully edited, instagrammed madness. Artistic blurs, a gently fading line of ellipses in Fertigo or Garamond, hair becoming expressions of wildness, sensuality, tragedy, objects becoming disturbing and despairing metaphors.
A profile picture becomes a limpid mirror reflecting a person's splintered inner cosmos; a single status update shatters you with its deafening silence. Pain becomes crystal violins under your skin effusing searing light.
We are unconsciously trying to get attention, perhaps. I am not denying that. But it is more of a documentation of our stream of consciousness, the terrible and oddly euphoric incoherency that is building up inside each one of us out here. Articulated anguish. The cacophony rising in our bones. The wing rustles of insomnia's mocking angels.
This is a systematic filing of my descent into madness, melancholy or something else. Slowly verging onto a temptingly nebulous brink. 

Image: Cathedral Vegetal by Remedios Varo

1 comment:

dannie said...

Reading this while listening to Bjork is disconcertingly breathtaking.