Project 52: Toppling Atlas

1 short story a week. 52 weeks a year.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

New Short Story: 01.25.13 "Madness"

Working Title: Madness.

     Soft, is my breathing; calculated breaths, each starving for rhythmic perfection. My body hasn't moved an inch for quite some time now. No, with each finger top, with every toe, I can feel the nerves in my body bunched up tight, wanting to leap out at anything near, though. What manner of madness have I come upon that I ever began to question the very nature of my soul? What had I planned on doing with the secrets it held? Could I have stilled the creeping thoughts that lead me to this point, I would have long since taken the advantage.
     That opportunity never appeared, but perhaps it had never truly existed in the first place. How should I - trapped in this unaware body - even begin to have an idea of it? Madness; of course it's madness. So here I lay in my bed, the hours having long since floated away, abandoning me to the confines of my own thoughts; spoken by a voice that sounds distant in my head, but I assume it to be my own.
     Of all the questions that snap and break into 100 more during these nights, there is a constant thought among the frenzy I can pluck out. I wonder to myself if I'll always be alone. Even that voice in the back of my head that I've come to find such solace in has stopped answering. It's all such a grand joke, that I can hear laughter through my head, and I thankfully cry myself to sleep that night.
     The morning may not be bring any answers, but at least it will bring with it the sun. For now, I will have to cling to that. The man falling down a cliff cares not of the sharpness of the rock which he grabs, nor the size, or color, or wild growth that rests upon it. He cares not of the chemical composition of the stone, or how long it has been jutting from the cliff-side. He just grabs whatever he can catch, and clings to it until he falls again, or finally finds the strength, or perhaps nerve, to climb back to safety.
     It's all madness, I know nothing about climbing mountains. I know nothing of finding sleep, or finding myself. Nothing of hope, or its partner despair. I know nothing, save for madness. If one could be said to know madness, which my shaky resolve assumes not. Perhaps I just know nothing at all.
     The sun rises, and with it, my body stands from the bed, and starts to groom and wash. Another day of going through the motions, interacting, smiling, and striving, but you can always find me in that room when the hour turns late. You can hear me laughing, but you'll never see it in my eyes. No, only madness. The hours begin to float on by.

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