madness

living in the inbetween

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

Life is not made up of big moments, surrounded by the everyday. Life is the everyday and the big moments float as debris on a still lake.

They bring character, a sense of optimism for something more than just a still, lonely lake, and most of all, a possibility of something new. Nobody knows from whence the river flows, but that it flows makes a world of difference. Staring at the same water gets old, and bathing in the same water is death.

There's nothing written about the water being bluer on the other side, and it would be a lie if there were. All water, earth, love, and hatred are the same, and only a matter of varying degrees. Sadness is the same. Everything is the same.

I walk on days-old snow, destroying the calmness of frozen surfaces. There never has been more or less than in this moment. Everything is the same. Life is a series of the in-between moments, occasionally punctuated by the novel.

Love is the coldest lake, and the less still. The boredom of love is an abyss that drains the life from the healthy to the point they wither and die instantaneously. Maybe there is no ressurection afterwards, although we all limp forward and try. Once corrupted, maybe love is never to be saved.

A splash of caffeine rakes its hot fingers through the gooey areas of my brain. Something stirs. Madness sits, a raven, keeping the eggs that are my ideas warm until the hatch into still-born lines about things nobody knows. There is only one loss in life worthy of the name, that of progress and love. The endless march of progress losses everything to gain nothing, and it eats at love like a flame eats at gasoline. The funeral was held at the lake.

Stillness pervaded, nothing stirred.

Belief, nothing and madness

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Belief is a distinctly human trait, and built on human rationality. Somewhere between Donald Davidson and Jane Goodale, life happens.

Stinky, barbaric, chaotic life. The kind that numbs the brain like sitting hunched over staring at your black keyboard with no words that can capture the moment of nothing. The kind of nothing that could not go by any other name and could never be understood by anybody who never spent time torn down by strong anti-depressants, or at least sunken into the abyss of a serious depression.

Numb nothingness.

The kind of numbness crafted from a lack of love, or love torn off your back like an old, bloody and pale band-aid only to reveal an infected wound that blasts pain to the limits of your being. Cures are for quitters and only the truth-seekers – and admittedly those with a hint of masochisism – can absorb the experience of a world crashing down around their waxy ears.

We build the foundations of our lives on nothing. Beliefs are pulled together as patchwork abominations, scary and aggressive, but even more transitory than new years resolutions and sports rosters. Beliefs are often built on prejudice, half-baked ideas and tunnel-vision perspectives, yet taken as transcedental truth.

We live there, We all live there. No wonder people are not good to each other.

A person is a collection of actions, statements and rumours. If there’s an intelligent design, humans were thrown together as an example of what happens when the boundaries of dysfunction and chaos anally rape order and justice.

We can ive nowhere else, and we can never walk away from ourselves. No bullet could remove us, and no chemical lobotomy or hallucigenic drug could propel us out of being stuck here. We are right here, staring at an off-white wall where nothing but screams, crying and the howls of madness reach our ears.

Shut up and listen. You can hear it too. Madness, distant but coming on like a train. It claims every brilliant mind it did not birth.

keep walking as the clock

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

there,

could you hear it?

It came in the slow,

monotonous,

ticking of the clock.

It left ashamed,

forgotten in the absolute silence of space

following that booming,

clicking,

noise.

Whether it came or not

was as irrelevant as her

claims of the same.

It did not matter now

and would not matter later,

but that's true of everything.

No revelation there.

No unshrouding of mystery,

only a compounded problem,

and another averts their gaze,

afraid in a soul-paralyzing manner,

keep walking.

Just,

keep walking.

It's too big a problem,

it's too big a battle.

Keep walking.

The clock ticks,

the jump to something real,

the clock ticks,

the jump to

anything at all,

the clock ticks

anything… 

the clock ticks,

at all…

the clock ticks.

representation of the Damned

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Stability is a relative term,

when speaking of madness.

 

Those days left me long ago,

I remember it feeling like home,

and it's still such a tempting offer.

 

A history of my madness,

can be traced on onion-skin,

paper,

even by the poorest artists.

 

You'll find father figures,

lovers,

friends,

and those of greatness.

 

We all end up face down,

sucking on the dirt with our,

dead faces, flesh rots to bone,

we massage the dirt with cheek bones,

protruding from our skulls with their worn,

enamel.

 

There is no shell for the hearts,

and each abandonment kills a,

piece of heart,

that will never return,

but will never leave either;

a representation of the Damned.

 

Be certain,

we are all the Damned.