Insanity
He sat on his bed his head hurting. He looked at his black and white striped sweat pants. His eyes trying to stay open but not working to stay. Blink, blink, open close... His hands ripped at his hair, the black thick hair was too strong to rip. But each time it felt as if it might. He covered his eyes halfway, His pointless eyes. His head hurt, every thought. Every idea, stop. Stop it. No more. Leave it alone. Just drift. His head hurt without the pills, He hid it from everyone but when alone in His room. Screaming for hours or weeping, it depended on the day. His eyes, they finally stayed down, His head went quiet. Peace. Then the dreams, the worst. Where insanity is limitless, you can question, stir, eat away, and hurt yourself. Dreams were the physical, or psychological form of all He hated. This dream was a good one though, and through. It would change Him, and save Him. It always left its mark on Him since that day. And it was beautiful...
He walked down a crystal path, the area around Him was a mix of interchanging fall and winter. The seasons mixing and clashing in different places in the endless horizon of the field. The road, it shone like a marble, and felt as if sand on His now barren feet. The sand was neither hot or cold, sand, glass, marble. There was no telling what the path was made of, except that it held a certain safety or trust in it. The path went for miles upon miles no real end in sight. But He walked, His mind was clear, no pain, no insanity. Then there was a bench to the left of the path. Under a gold and orange tinted red tree, a large maple. It sat as an omen. It was made of leaf gold edging and a hickory wood base, on the back a name was inscribed in what was guessed Latin. He walked around it, once, twice, three times, then sat down. He looked up from His legs the same clothes as before but this time, they looked nice. He cared about the things he saw then after He looked up. The sky a haze of an orange to red and purple, the tree's leaves now making a new grass mixed with snow. No life but the small chirping of a Goldfinch, possibly Oreo. Then He looked to His right, His mother was there. She wore a yellow dress, no shoulders on it and a lace under it of silk. She smiled, no sadness or disappointment she usually had. She laughed with her kind, soft features, no shadows under the eyes no old age showing except for laugh lines around her mouth. But what did she laugh at? It was Him, He was laughing too. Something that He had long forgotten the feel of. A smile now on His face He stood up and walked away as His mother seemed to melt away with the bench and nature around it. She in a sudden silence. Him with a smile on His face, and tears down His eyes.
The place stood in a still silence as a mountain came into view, it covered in the lush fall colors yet a red haze with a pillar of grey also come from the top. It giving of a thin layer of white ash, moving forward the sand like material began to get hotter, but at a nice temperature. He reached the bottom of that mountain and looked up at it, tall and wide, the only two words really able to describe it. And so he climbed, up, up, higher, taller, like a latter to heaven it seemed to go forever. The path became stairs as the incline grew, and the clouds had came closer. He was not afraid of the dark, He wasn't afraid of heights. He was never afraid of those two, when He was three He slept on the roof on a pitch black winter. But now He climbed the mountains stretching, the clouds below him, only autumn shrubs that were ready to shrivel up and rest for next summer. It was sad now the world nearly gone without him, then at the top he saw miles around Him. The golden sun hiding now behind the horizon, only the top visible as if trying to hide from the moon now behind Him. It was fine being alone but He wanted to see the other people again. To be sane. So He found the trail and walked His way back, now by memory. In pitch black He walked to the bench. His smiling mother gone, He then sat down, closed his eyes. And woke up...