in a prison of glass her body had been buried while her mind spun endlessly for years.
in the same confined space she had lost the sense of self and it had taken over.
the daemon on one’s shoulder is both gargoyle and shameless sinducer.
Kyniska was me. After gaining a religious faith, she died in a maelstrom of angst. Madness is a mode of being, legs no longer operational, breathing detached from glass body, brittle on the eve of sleep.
Sleep you must, and sleep is taken away from you. Day after day, sleeplessly, you talk to it, and talks to you. Sometimes it shouts, sometimes you whisper. Sometimes the messaiah is coming, and sometimes it’s just you and it. Watching the circle, as no season exists in this prison. There are no flowers, no harvest, no sunshine. Pain does not end, it revolves, profoundly.
One hour you dig deep into the sinew of your gut, one minute lasts an eternity. There is no sleep in this darkness, only a thousand voices shouting in unison.
Then the tomb opens, and I finally look down the side of the building, emerging chrysalis, down to the abyss. It is not even that deep, or long. The much desired death is within reach, the end of suffering.
I hesitate. There is an absolute stillness to this instant, and the heat of the tower shields us from the cosmic freeze. This is Earth. This is Rex Nebular, this is Enceladus and a thousand million other places merging into one. Time takes survey of all and comes to a halt.
In this gap, the wave extended leaves no mark on the mind. I am conscious, again. For a moment, pain is no longer an absolute necessity.
I climb out of my grave.