“Chaos is a ladder.” Said Petyr Baelish, a song of ice and fire.
Chaos is more, it’s less. It’s balancing on the edge of reason, a kind of terrible beauty, like that of animals rushing out of a forest fire. It’s a word that seems to echo in your head, ricochet off the walls in your mind. You’re powder, grains- a ping pong ball tossed in an endless game of tennis.
Feel the word on your tongue, it tastes like a caress, or a brick tossed into the sea. Your lips form the words like it’s shaping fire, yet it is delivered without ceremony, thudding down on the floor.
My brand of chaos is in my head. There isn’t a mob, there aren’t crowds of voices outstripping the others in an endless war to be heard. There is no sound at all. I feel the lethargy of my mind, in its limbs full of despair it sits before the cyclone.
Chaos is over me, around me and I should drown over it. Leave a sea over my head and I would be crushed.
What if I wasn’t? If the pain stayed, relentless, unending. The suffocation of perpetuity, that is chaos.
Chaos is resigning to the world outside, relegating your soul to a second place, to sit and shape your unruly entity into a mould that is quite unlike your own. You stand and wonder, If you should sell yourself to this madness, and in your choice you’ve already resigned yourself to the fate of being a part of the machine.
Such reason, equitable, sensible. Good decisions, wise, calculated and yet you’re spiraling into nothing.
There is chaos in reason, in the society which believes in reason. And there is chaos in the desert of my head.
The awful realities of silence. To murder yourself is to grow up.
It’s time to grow up.
Chaos“>in response to the daily prompt, chaos.