My inner world, divided by a septum into halves, beats in a haunting tether, yet a tangible odyssey of parallel pilgrimage. One half utterly mad, gradually slipping away with time, whilst the other waltzes in liveliness, a queen of youth dressed in an ostentatious gown with a crown adorning her head, reigning with complete sovereignty. She who is the better half is blessed with an undercurrent of benevolence, full of agape despite the inner turmoil. A power she possesses that is bestowed lightly and meticulously upon others with regard to the fragility of the human heart, flowing endlessly without expectation, yet beneath that lies a tenacious will to protect herself in the plight of public degradation.
He who is tired and mad slowly withers to nothing, crumbling like a ruined city, battered and old; a flower somberly decaying with the onset of winter's days. It whispers of a dolorous soul, the tears of entropy holding dominion over his humanity like a waterfall cascading downward to meet its esteemed companion, the earth, with a mingling scent of dirt and water drifting through the air, touching all it encounters. Have you ever known a mad king of tired age? One that kindly welcomes natural selection, embracing it with a tranquil demeanor and a smile, yet paradoxically has a complementary half—The Queen of Youth—who regales us with a serenade of courage, filled with immeasurable bravery that defies the silence and madness of its other half: the Mad Sovereign, ruled by entropy, who withers in madness; a king of old age, widely revered, unraveling in weariness with the weight of his entire kingdom resting upon his shoulder. Born of ashes to ashes, he shall return. This reprieve this half longs for is but a delicate desire, yet one full of hope.
The question to pose: Who will fall into eternal slumber first?