Sanity Runs in Pieces

Sanity becomes an enquiry I can forgive but it distills itself through every hole in the mind and finds in itself an even rival that challenges it to become a vague past of itself, to be continuously be brought into an enema potentiating every whip and whim. Even with the inconsiderate place it finds itself in, my sanity rubs and runs past any questionable means to bring it to play.

 

Half the time, I am lost in the withheld secrets that seem to shut their doors and plaster their windows capturing my soul within the four walls. I can even consider some half burnt images of myself to be brought within me only to make my sanity be brought to be me, in tatters. In place of all the sense, even in its questions, I find a vanishing act that keeps slipping through any means to capture it.

 

Regarding the place that I intend to falter into, it surrenders and the burden of its existence is drawn out and all that is looted. For exemption of the will, I withstand the currents like a wall being teared down by its very inhabitants. In order, they bleed. In chaos, they make me weep. The just inflame and unjust disregards. It all happens inside the frame of mind, never to be brought out in open. In fact, it becomes a questionable discovery that alters with silence and patience withdraws and ultimately that remains as a forfeited lie which can extoll and bribe the listener into believing the degraded pathology that seems to envelope and strand for reasons that escape any.

 

To discover an unbound self to be rescued is an untimely quest that makes the seeker a two fold face that can only be comforted by the untamed demons – the forces that jeopardise and relieve. The means become an importance source of salt rubbed into the face and the wound faces the seeker as a new replica of the past that keeps justifying an injury.

 

It becomes a much spirited sphere of influence wherein the enquirer loses himself to the burden that derives pleasure and phlegm out of the mischief that it can become. For all the purposes of even doing, odd undoes an effort. Any pause is a stop. Play moves and the theatre laughs at the faults. Nothing undone becomes a burden that cannot be fitted into anything and thus it may only be absorbed as an infected tissue that kills time until it finds a suitable place to withdraw and instil.

 

Making a hefty display out of nothing derails the efforts to keep channeling your sanity. However untidy the mind retains itself as, it clears the dust at even faster pace, vomiting its content on the bearer. Howsoever may the ploy be derived the figured reality keeps engaging in itself and the person.

 

Maybe with all the fair advantage of finding some room to further distill the sadness into a virtue, the mischief may finally be given some rest, and deliverance destroys its impatience for a while. Making it the moment that defines the insanity as a growth that can actually be addressed as something that need not be feared, but classified as a menace that distorts pleasure out of pain and gives a further meaning to the attempts made to reveal the existential dread.

 

Even while filling the man of virtue of indecent amount of ultimatum, a man worthy decries a failure that salutes even the most deprived. The price to play and to indulge the mind into a role that it does not want to be fitted into makes for a scenario that realises its zenith only when it is made to fall. To fail is its biggest virtue as it awakes an even higher goal – one that calls for an even bigger bet from the person to heal his wounds and get back on the carousel to find himself.

 

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2017

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