The darkness pervaded his every thought, his every movement, his muscles tensed
as he coiled ready to strike. But strike at whom? And where? This makes no
sense, he can feel it, he is surrounded by it, but yet it is not visible to the
naked eye. It can only be felt in his heart and in the dark corners of his mind.
He was afraid to look into the depths of his own thoughts for fear of what was
lurking there, waiting for him to slip, to drop his guard for a mere fraction of
a second. It was waiting to pounce on him and tear him apart forcefully and
brutally, with no mercy, no remorse. What could this thing be? What could be so
dark and so evil, and yet not be tangible. Why must it stalk him so
relentlessly? Why must he endure this demoralizing torture? It stalked him on
a busy street, it stalked him in a quiet wooded meadow, it mattered not his location.
It knew where he was and what he was doing at all times. It spied on him. It
seemed to anticipate his every move, it must, for surely it was always there,
waiting.
How can something be so pervasive and be so woven into the texture of his life,
and yet seem to be the anti Christ of life, the opposite of life, the end of life?
It cannot be so much a part of him, but it is. If it is structured so deeply into
his life, then it only makes sense that it would have to be life. This thing
would have to be good, would it not? For it is of him. Everything he had ever
heard, told him otherwise. This was darkness. This was not something to be worn
proud like a ribbon of honor or badge of courage. No. This was something to be
shunned. Cast out to the furthest reaches of humanity, out beyond the point from
which it could ever return.
He pounded his fists into his skull, in a futile effort trying to drive out his
madness. Or was he trying to pound himself senseless, hoping not to feel this way
anymore. Either would be acceptable at this point, he was not sure how much longer
he could take it. The breaking point of any mortal can not be much further down
this path from where he stands now. Acts of desperation can be seen as the actions
of a hero, or the actions of a mad man, and they are seperated by only the
thinest of grey lines. It is more a matter of perception than reality, if through
a desperate act of self motivated self preservation others are inadvertantly
saved, its enough for a ticker tape parade. On the other hand the exact same self
preservation actions, from threats imagined or real, that result in the injury or
loss of life to others, a lynch mob appears in the wake of those events.
How then can he be sure of his own sanity. Had he crossed over to some kind of
functional insanity? Was there a litmus test that said with certainty that he was
insane? Could it be so simple, all he needed was to stick his finger in some ink
black solution and remove it to check for some tell tale discoloration. If his
finger came out clean, he was sane, and if it came out stained black then there
was no doubt to his mental state. The black solution permanently marking him for
all to see. Everyone would know instantly this was a person to be shunned. There
would be those that would cut off their finger, that tatle tale finger that wagged
at them insessintly, pointed at them and accusesd them. They would claim the finger
was lost in an accident, maybe it was cut off by a saw blade, or the lawn mower.
Would this not also prove their insanity? Would a sane man cut off his own appendages?
Next time you see someone missing digits, watch them closely, look for any signs of
their insanity. Even as you watch them and judge them, avoid eye contact with them
at all costs, for you may see into their darkness, and you too may be stained.
Dean Williams© 2003