Psychosis in Prose

Lost And Wounded

She was always alone and never lonely. Her baggage she wore like a badge. She carried with her everything she owned and had everything she could need, except the connection she was terrified to take. She hated communication, small talk as it all sounded like misinformation, she could not ever trust a soul. Those she had trusted from old, from her being young enough to depend on them, those had been the ones who told the lies, who let her down, and now did not want her around them anymore. She lived in threat of minor irritations until these things boiled over into fear and paranoid delusions. Every week another key would be handed to her, another lock change on a house that only she and her cat had ever entered. No one was safe to step inside but if someone happened to stop by and knock on the door, then she would call the housing up and another lock change on the doors once more. She kept her windows locked and blinds almost shut but open enough to peep to see people walking by passing by getting on with their lives and they never knew what was going on in her mind or inside those closed doors.

"I almost died, secretly behind closed doors"

---Stephen Baldwin---

Dark Night Of The Soul

Until one day, come what may she happened upon a smiley face. Friendly enough although drunk as such she knew she might or could be saved. A whole new twist shone a light on things, at which she welcomed the visitor in. He came inside open-minded, opened his heart, and tore her soul apart in the kindest way. She saw that he had saved her from dispairing. Until he went away disappearing only to lay his head in his own bed without her. That night was a dark night of the soul. Many a bad nightmare occurred. She made a decision. She texted a few words. Then left her life in the hands of the blued eye man, the stranger. Would he? How could he? save her. But he did... 12 hours later. She'd been missing all day. Floating away in the state of unconscious-lucid-limbo. The second time_ she saved herself. Then admitted defeat in the face of duty and the arms of angels she took herself into the equation and the stranger waited. Patiently. Away, in his world. Fighting fit as she fought a fight for and against her own demons. Trying to lift the weight of her entire life. He waited to give her life and she sensed a need to get out and talk about the pain, and the way she refrained from discussing the delusions before. She wanted to speak but behind closed doors. Ones with no windows. Only the windows to the soul.

"My life closed twice before its close-

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event on me"

---Emily Dickenson (1830-1886) ---

Giving Sorrow Words

His voice was one of monotone innocence, and ignorance and the insurance of life was his policy - wide-eyed - signed, and declared. His beautiful charm of transparence and bliss. She wanted never to say those words for fear of drawing a tear on those immaculate cheeks. She did make him grow out his beard, to frame her name upon his lips and love the mouth that feeds her. His tongue is a crimson dingy that floats in the rapids of rapid rushed love flushed blood and heavenly sent harmonics. "In other words... please be true... in other words... I'm a monster, nice to meet you". She told him why she was crying but didn't reveal the plot, her eyes and his met in veiled secrecy, souls collided, and the stars took a back seat on everything then nothing was said in a heartbeat. The crowded car seat of the waiting taxi announced what was to be the longest-most connected, lasting memory. The only person who, in her entire life, gave, displayed, engaged, and forgave her love in all its shocking entirety. His broken heart could not be healed or mended and he didn't feel it had to or that it was his place to glue it. Instead, he took the biggest, bad, best surviving piece that he could see he took it and claimed it and it no longer looked maimed.

"Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak,

knits up the o'er wrought heart and bids it break"

---William Shakespeare (1564-1616) ---

The Prepared Mind

Pampered into plump submission depo medications and the combination of love fuelled favors or facetted minds, adjust to fate and the passing time. Clocks turn to rust and miracles occur. What was it like to be him or her? Her without him would not have been but now she was no beauty queen, in the eyes of the world she had to be seen, and so with regret, she ceased to be. Shivering into a shell from the seashore, he would be willing to listen. Like knocking on heaven's door asking for permission to turn around and walk away. He loved her and made her who she is today. She hates the way she turned around but there is no doubt her survival was padded out with happiness and contentment in most flower beds. It's lonely being the underdog. Demons don't speak evil anymore but nostalgia plays its part in her scarred heart of dark trimmings.

"Lonely yet all undaunted, in this rebuilt land enchanted

In my heart by horror haunted - tell me truely I implore

Is my love within you? Tell me....tell me, I implore....

Quoth the raven, sadly, 'Never....more?'"

---EDGAR ALLEN POE, THE RAVEN---

The loneliness graveled along beside them and lives on furthermore. She was saved and sold her soul to the man she would have given it to for free. Loneliness lingers on... in the melancholic depression behind the enchantment of their secret serenade love song. Love leaves forever green and fragrant amidst the flow of summer wind. She'll be sane as long as love never leaves her alone again.

A strange trail to follow - I know - a love story, as told from the point of view of the person with schizophrenia - emphasizing a psychotic slant within the prose.