Just do what you're doin'

Guilt.



She wondered why she could hear pulses, so sharp and intense along the inside of her skull that it felt like the hottest flame in the midst of a blizzard.

But there it was. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. And another. She wanted to shake it all out of her head – burn, scatter, repeat.

When she settles she feels melancholy, but sudden bouts of pain would rouse her drugged-like state every time her mind wandered to that. Oh, that. It was like an epileptic fit of sorts, maybe some other disease she didn’t have the intellect to know the name. She swore that she could see it. The image burned – no, engraved onto her retinas.

And oh that image was striking… startling, also. Although, she couldn’t make it out completely. Only the blurred and fuzzy outline. It was like peering at a painting through stained glass. Or dirty glasses. Once her friend had dirty glasses she refused to clean. At the end of the day she ran into a tree. She laughed at this.

Of the painting, the damned picture, she could see the streaks. Vicious streaks slashed in all directions, like pandemonium, a chaotic and delusional, madly raged artist. Then, the other slashes – no… she shook her head – splashes, splashes of colour. They seemed to be all the composite colours, avoiding the blues and the yellows and the – oh dear lord – red.

That red. That red! She thinks.

The colours swirl beneath her eyelids. The browns fuse with the purples and the maroons, the green dancing with the beiges.

Yeah, best artist in the world, she thinks.

Then she tries to dismiss the thought but she can’t.

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.

She rakes her head, explored in her brain. Sense. It made none.

Voices, however, there were some. There. Right there. Covering her eyes and ears. What help would that do?

What would it do? Really? She asks herself. Also, she could also ask herself why she feels that way. But that would be rhetorical, no?

Rhetorical the wrong word. Wrong word. It blinks in her mind like an annoying neon store front sign, advertising the daily special.

She can’t dismiss that worthless, pointless thought. She can’t dismiss any thought. It makes her feel positively fatigued, all of it.

Desperation and inspiration. That’s what makes people act. Motivation, desperation, more desperation. It was despicable. It is despicable. Her former cold feelings swirl now with the ones of shock, disbelief. They suspended in her head.

No way of redemption. Absolutely. None. That what is suspended must stay suspended. Ashamed? Yes. Loathing? Yes. Regret?

Regret?

Question could not be answered. Switch turned off. It was sad. Beyond sad. She could find the meaning of the actions; the meaning, but not the connection! Where would we all be without connections?

It was definitely an impulse. So swift it was impossible to control. And then, reality gripped her like vines. She wished so frantically and dreadfully to stop her mind from constantly hitting the rewind and replay button. But to no avail. It was utterly useless trying to do anything. It was like… it was like a spark; a sudden dive; as abrupt and unexpected as a miracle, except for the one crucial fact: this was no miracle; this was fatally far from it.

Again, she wishes she could somehow vent her feelings; to be able to open her mouth, roof separated from tongue, then to release the succession of long vowels from the vocal chords. Screech. Just that would be enough.

If only it were that easy, she thinks. If only it were that easy.

Maybe this is what insanity feels like? Keep trying.

END.