Insanity.
One simple word. Four simple syllables. Seven simple letters. Marked with a capital and a period. Simple. Casual. Plain.
And maybe in another word, foul.
So rotten and containing just one drop of evil, but it only needs one drop to reach its heart and pump the malicious gestures through its veins.
So rotten, in fact, that it seems to reach every corner of my mind, lingering in its own cosmic self-pity and wallowing in the shadows where light of knowledge cannot grasp it in its cracked, bruised fingers.
So corrupt, in turn, that my brain is so ever unhelpful.
These thoughts cannot be wished away.
They are a part of me, latching on to my chromatic imagination like a tumor, raining nightmares down upon my consciousness.
And in a way, I believe that I'm contagious.
The earth, the world, and the universe in some aspect have seemed to grasp this idea that murder is an art and blood marks the sweet paintbrushes that dance in our fingertips.
They are the watchers, curiously seeking entertainment through our pain.
Life is the onlooker, peeking through the closed window, sprawling in disappointment at the collapse of everything human.
Insanity.
