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Description
Perhaps the most annoying thing about my current mental state is not being able to tell reality from fantasy.

The past, the present, and the possible future all run together, time is meaningless. The ticking of a clock is more maddening than it would ever be helpful, and it seems as though it's counting down the time left for me. I'd shatter the front of its numbered face if it weren't for fear of breaking the sound so reminiscent of the beating of my own heart. The face reflected back in its glass has been unrecognizable for a long time, so that one would be unsure of whether or not it is a window rather than a mirror.

But do the outward appearances even matter when the demons in your skull have changed your mind?

When one can't even think a single, solitary thought without a multitude of other imaginings floating to the conscious surface, or without darker desires bubbling in the farthest recesses of your mind, one wonder if the removal of their brain would silence the noise. One night's rest is all but a myth, as strings of ideals flow without ceasing or any hindrance whatsoever. At that moment, you lie awake and wonder if anything going through your head has any meaning or could become anything, or perhaps what it will be made into by the next week, month or morning. Sometimes you lie in terror at what sort of world your mind has created for itself, a hell, or what sort of wanton fantasy it recently dreamed while waking, a state of pure bliss.

Each moment is preceded and echoed by a different imagining, a different state of existence, of peace of mind. Reality has no meaning, as fantasy has blended with it to create the most intricate and indecipherable of concoctions to ever exist in the realm of the human mind.

It's a secret show, a private story for yourself until you just want to scream, to curl up in the corner and wish and beg and cry for it to all just shut up. But it won't. The mind doesn't work like that. Every second your head is filled with a loud sound, whether it be another idea or a voice, whispering the most improbable things. The inner demons do not become silent with the whisper of a single word, nor with the loudest of your screaming pleas, and they like to carry on with their many strange wonderings, entangling the ideas in your head until you can't sort out one moment to the next.

Nothing has meaning any more, and it's far too loud and crowded in your so you find an outlet to get it all out. Everything in the world becomes a canvas, a blank page in a typewriter, the strings or keys of an instrument, the vast reaches of cyberspace. Art, tears, pain, drugs, anything becomes a ready outlet for your mind.

Get rid of it all, before you go utterly, irrevocably, undeniably, completely, wonderfully, terrifyingly, beautifully, insane.

Description
Perhaps the most annoying thing about my current mental state is not being able to tell reality from fantasy.

The past, the present, and the possible future all run together, time is meaningless. The ticking of a clock is more maddening than it would ever be helpful, and it seems as though it's counting down the time left for me. I'd shatter the front of its numbered face if it weren't for fear of breaking the sound so reminiscent of the beating of my own heart. The face reflected back in its glass has been unrecognizable for a long time, so that one would be unsure of whether or not it is a window rather than a mirror.

But do the outward appearances even matter when the demons in your skull have changed your mind?

When one can't even think a single, solitary thought without a multitude of other imaginings floating to the conscious surface, or without darker desires bubbling in the farthest recesses of your mind, one wonder if the removal of their brain would silence the noise. One night's rest is all but a myth, as strings of ideals flow without ceasing or any hindrance whatsoever. At that moment, you lie awake and wonder if anything going through your head has any meaning or could become anything, or perhaps what it will be made into by the next week, month or morning. Sometimes you lie in terror at what sort of world your mind has created for itself, a hell, or what sort of wanton fantasy it recently dreamed while waking, a state of pure bliss.

Each moment is preceded and echoed by a different imagining, a different state of existence, of peace of mind. Reality has no meaning, as fantasy has blended with it to create the most intricate and indecipherable of concoctions to ever exist in the realm of the human mind.

It's a secret show, a private story for yourself until you just want to scream, to curl up in the corner and wish and beg and cry for it to all just shut up. But it won't. The mind doesn't work like that. Every second your head is filled with a loud sound, whether it be another idea or a voice, whispering the most improbable things. The inner demons do not become silent with the whisper of a single word, nor with the loudest of your screaming pleas, and they like to carry on with their many strange wonderings, entangling the ideas in your head until you can't sort out one moment to the next.

Nothing has meaning any more, and it's far too loud and crowded in your so you find an outlet to get it all out. Everything in the world becomes a canvas, a blank page in a typewriter, the strings or keys of an instrument, the vast reaches of cyberspace. Art, tears, pain, drugs, anything becomes a ready outlet for your mind.

Get rid of it all, before you go utterly, irrevocably, undeniably, completely, wonderfully, terrifyingly, beautifully, insane.