Going Crazy

I am so tired now that things are moving in the corners of my eyes.

That plastic wrapper, for example, is like a jumping spider; every time I look, it moves back into place, just to taunt me.

I think I'll go mad soon if I don't throw it away.

But I'm still me, you know. The crevasse of my mind may have split just a tad, the rocks may have shifted just a little, but I'm still me.

Make no mistake about it. That boulder you're standing on? won't crumble for a million years.

Yeah, I'm like that.

Except…sometimes when the rain pelts me I erode ever-so-slightly. Sometimes when the wind blows, I am shaped by the flying sand.

But I'm okay.

That wrapper now is covered by my blanket, but I can still feel it itching in my brain. It is a scratchy, crackling, sort of noise.

Crinkle, crinkle, crackle.

I hate that.

I really should throw it away, but I know that once I look at it, it'll move…

Ideas, some are rooted in the pitted limestone surface, others take their hold firmly and crawl up into my muse as mountain climbers will often scale a cliff.

Their sure-footedness only slips sometimes, say…when the moon smiles bluely and the stars sing lullabies…but that's the only time it goes awry, I swear.

That picture…on the wall…did it just smile at me? I cannot guess what it might want to say…does the dragon find me appealing? Appetizing, perhaps?

Crinkle, crinkle, crack.

Okay, so maybe one of the mountain climbers had an accident. His foot is stuck on a particular illogical thought inside of a small hole in the rock, where bees just-so-happen to live. He is plagued by their poison and his foot swells and I think he is going to fall…

But that's okay, because there is a ravine down below and he surely will not die, will he?

Crinkle, crinkle, crack.

I really ought to throw that damned thing away. I ought to burn that disgraceful picture, except… dragons like flames, don't they? Fuck!

What to do? What to do?

Well…the man has fallen. Stop smiling, dragon, you think this is funny?

And plastic, be quiet. You, doll, stop snickering!

All of you, savages, heathens, demons, he's dead because of you! And yet, here you sit, in jest?

For shame! For shame!