As I sit so frantic,
whilst my mind is at war with itself an epiphany flashes through my dark and shadowed conscious.
I am other.
A thing I did not aim to achieve,  but have become unknowingly, it had never been a thought that entered my scattered library of thoughts.
A vast pool of different musings, but this state of realisation has left me in a much more dumbfounded way.
I now struggle with the concept of reality as it has been presented to me.
Why have I rejected its norms and rulings?
What in my minds eye allows me to exist in this limbo I have created.
Everyone whom I love exists in the reality, have I merely imagined these relationships, am I real?
I muse through thoughts in my head like filed documents to find evidence or proof, that I belong in their world.
That my consciousness is at present infected with a virus which is determined to rip me away from them.
A virus fuelled by warm tears and screams.
However I found I cannot find any substance to these claims and accusations I make against the shadowy and cloudy workings inside my skull.
My presence in their reality bears no fruit  but destruction and the subjugation of joy with despair.
I am the tear bringer.
I have done these things without malice or a sinister thought, more an adolescent, selfish and naive notion that my being was pertain to a slightly as-cue normality.
It has been displayed to me in the most brutal and haunting of ways, that this sense of normality was a façade, created either by my own psyche.
Or by my peers in an an attempt to give me that sense of belonging, they feel my mind required.
All this has done is create a dam, which has broken leaving a flood of nightmares, and the purgatory I now inhabit.
This chaos is mine.
The frantic chatter of demons remains.
I desist in warm-blooded dreams.
Falling.

my vision is tunnelled
an absence of shine, or suns blaze
winter of my psyche.

Pooled into cages
dissolving pains of springs clean air.
I wept smog.

I am wandering through streets, magnanimous  in demeanour.
the gentle breeze had filled my lungs with cold air.
The air soothes my lungs.
The soothing is abruptly ended by another pull on my cigarette.
I drift past the people on each side of me,
Whilst the marketplace inside my skull blares noise.
It is filled with merchant idea makers, all trying to make the easiest deal,
They scream at the singular customer.
The agony in their voice is chilling, palpable.
They shout and bellow at him, he is so apathetic to their cause.
Their ventures are meaningless.
*******, he muses.
No dream is worth that.
No nightmare is without debt.
No thought is without consequence.
No belief is without struggle.
No idea is without rejection.
So he chooses none of them, he just sits.
Uncaring and his opinion unknown to the sellers.
I am still wandering.