Insanity. Full - blown. What is wrong with me ? Cannot breathe - a throbbing on my toes. Eyes flutter for shelter. Inside. Look inside, stranger. Look inside. The answer in there. Right there.

At last, I have loved the difficult.

Tagore.

As long as I feel the need to fill out my loneliness with somebody else, there will be something terribly wrong with me. I must be capable to be happy by being myself. There are three nature of relationships that I experience in the universe; the one between I and the nature, I and other humans, and finally, the most important, I and my own self. It is the last one that defines me, and manifests me into my own truth. There is no God, no perfect partner, or no material thing that can bring me happiness.

Looking inside me, myself. Touch my own insanity, my loneliness, my despair, my passion, my place in the Universe. They are my friend. My true friend. Nothing else exist outside them. Nothing ever will.

Elephant on my chest. Time is slower, I feel like swimming into thick syrup. Black anchor tied to my feet. I am drowning. Inside me, something is throbbing, trembling.

What is it? I ask in the mirror.

This is you, replies an old man.

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was

found,

His who had given me life - O father ! O God ! was it

well? -

mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted

into the ground:

There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

- Tennyson.

Pain, terrible pain in the head. Invisible, dragging. Tiny, miniscule muscles and tendons stretching, torturing themselves. I need to live. Or leave?

The outsiders are gathering.

The outsiders are gathering....

Aw hell what the fuck is this? Reality seems kinda fuzzy this days, there's an elephant on my chest. Summer is the worst for me, and I can't deal with winter. I am crying inside. I need somebody, like a fish needs water to survive. but I can't. How much further I can go on? After sacrificing so much. the only thing left is my blood. perhaps the end is nearer than I thought.

Yet must I think less wildly: - I have thought

Too long and darkly, till my brain became,

In its own eddy boiling and overwrought,

A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:

And thus, untaught in my youth my heart to tame,

My springs of life were poison'd.

Byron

Should think with my brain.

Should think with my brain.

Never did.

Terrible, relentless uneasiness all over. Head hurts like hell, eyes twitching madly, legs tremble. A thousand demons screaming under the eyes. The blood feels like dancing lava, all fume and fire. An orange iron ore falls a heavy drip and wiggles inside my testicles.

Outside the window, brick walls are crumbling down as if they were made of sand. A man enjoying a beer. His head looks like a muffin. It's fucked up.

The meatballs are burning inside the oven. Smoke everywhere.

Every night and every morn,
some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night,
some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight;
some are born to endless night......

- William Blake

Early morning. An eerie restlessness everywhere....scattered around my room. Couldn't sleep...there were intermittent, sharp, piercing nightmares. I could see around me, yet asleep.

Legs jittery, wants to go everywhere.

What is this sensation? Inside there is a screeching razor's edge. Flesh blood trembling.

It is not madness that i am afraid of, but becoming one. Being mad is being dead. Fear of death insubstantial.

In these terrible hours I hold my pencil and draw. As the dark lead scratches across the paper, I see a faint flickering of light again. I change. I breathe.

"....the mind's canker in its savage mood,

When the impatient thirst of light and air

Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous

shade,

Works through the throbbing eyeball to

to the brain

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain."

- Byron.

Our insides can burn, too.

When it does, comes the dark scratches –

And a sky full of fire.

The world becomes

A quivering pool of

Blood.

- Wither

I think continually of those who were truly great,

Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history

Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,

Endless and singing, Whose lovely ambition

Was that their lips, still touched with fire,

Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.

And who hoarded the Spring branches

The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.

What is precious, is never to forget

The Essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs

Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.

Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light

Nor its grave evening demand of love.

Never allow gradually the traffic to smother

With noise and fog, the flowering of the spirit.

Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields,

See those names are fêted by the waving grass

And by the steamers of white cloud

And whispers of wind in the listening sky.

The names of those who in their lives fought for life,

Who wore at their hearts the fire’s centre.

Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun

And left the vivid air signed with their honour.

- Stephen Spender

While writhing and twisting on my bed, I felt terribly pissed off at Sverker. Why is he not here?

Hey! That's selfish! I know -

I miss my friend. In these darkened hours, when mere breathing becomes a fucking torture. Where do I keep this bloody agitation? And all these people around me - they don't give a shit. I do what I do best - I retreat quietly, smiling. The longing for my friend is wrapped around my heart - I pray for his happiness.

You were our night ferry

thudding in a big sea

the whole craft ringing

with an armourer's music

the course set wilfully across

the ungovernable and dangerous

- Elegy

On the matter of universe, the greatest mistake a human being can make is try to comprehend all of it. At that point, mother nature yields her wrath on those offending people, mostly she likes to keep her mysteries to herself . Such wrath is vengeful and merciless often, as it affects the innermost regions of our soul, the sanctity of our existence. The color from everything disappears suddenly - the welcoming sunshine, the cool evening breeze, rushing rapids of waterfalls, the warming smile of a beloved - everything - turns bitter, sour, irritating, poisonous to the taste.

All we can do is to stand fast and hard, weathering the storm. We have the power to hold our mothers down - mother nature, the universe itself - and comprehend the truth.

The fire inside us is dangerous, vicious even. Only choice is to live with it - take it in our hands and shape it to our destiny.

I come to ferry you hence across the tide

To endless night, fierce fires and shramming cold.

- Dante

Don't know what to write. Feeling kinda dumb, but who cares? Yesterday drew myself out from one of those drawn - out, messy, and bloody emotional entanglements we call relationships. After emerging bloody from that turmoil, I questioned - 'how the fuck this had happened to me -

I will survive. I will survive.

Creation, in its essence, is a lonely process. And a mad one too, but that shouldn't come as a surprise 'cause all loonies are loners, and all loners, by definition, are loonies.

And Something's odd - within -

That person that I was -

And this one - do not feel the same -

Could this be Madness - this?

(Emily Dickinson)