the Idea

And here we are again: upon the precipice and looking down.

A raging torrent courses through veins, crashing around the bends, fighting against gravity, attempting to drown the system. The mind blanks, there is now a detachment from the focus and the peripheral.

Motions slow, like many wonderful balloons they hang in the air, drifting through space, less than audible. The racing mind consumes oxygen faster than the torrent can deliver, thoughts bleed into the consciousness uncontrollable. Emotions, images, words from dead languages the author swore to fiction.

In there it breaks, the maelstrom of thoughts circle the proverbial drain into oblivion. In there it is: amongst the chaos, lying in fear in the eye of the storm, trembling and shaking violently with the platform it drifted here upon.

It is this moment the mind waits for, her name is Clarity, named by her brother Madness, whom precedes and proceeds her. The mind is ablaze with conviction, it snatches from Clarity her moment, and abuse her talents to it's sickest desires. It reaches into the maelstrom for it, into the eye, and rips it from a turbulent socket. The screaming tendrils is in reaction to the offense, thrashing with wild abandon as it slinks away back into the darkness.

The whirling vortex stops, like in a video and someone hit pause, except that time here crept on. The entire volume now without purpose, and strength, can no longer maintain equilibrium. It crashes down on the mind as a monstrous wave, seeking pathways downwards, filling the deepest and darkest recesses. The mind does not care, it is occupied with a far more interesting plaything.

With a new throne and a new puppet, the mind carelessly shoves it back into reality, like a brick worker who cares little for the piece it is replacing, the fit was a coincidence. Time releases itself, faster than observation at first, but then gradually thins out. The mind drafts endlessly while looking upon it's new plaything. The plaything knows it's place, it will sit upon the apex with absolute stillness, lest it slips and be strangled by it's own leash. It waits patiently until the mind is finished, when it will be discarded, plunged into an unseen undertow and dragged back into the void.

And here we are again: Madness, his breathing labored, pressed against the door. A turning key, clicking into place.

~*+ Rho