I can feel the insanity rising beneath my skin, like blood percolating at a puncture. The only thing that keeps it below the surface is the small part of restraint somewhere in my being. My soul stuck in this body of flesh, blood, and bone. Sometimes I can feel myself bursting at every seam, feel myself break apart into shattered fragments of lunacy. Screaming at myself, at everything I am, and am not. Sinking, enveloping, molding, dying into this form into this creature...rabid...untamed, and without conscience. Death really is only the beginning. Death has no pain, no sorrow, no torment...but this...this is tyranny at its deepest. This is wrought iron, this is cruelty. It is fire and brimstone, it is rhyme without reason and pitch black. It is crying and wailing, and silence and surrender. It's everything you decline to acknowledge, every perverse thought and feeling abdicated. Every wrong, and every consequence and no way out but uncertain redemption.
Like a dog heaving at the side of the road.
