Ego Death, Achieved...

Prove me wrong once again and allow me one final glimpse, prove me wrong once again and show me the paper boats we used to make. Aren’t they too resting deep down this aging lake? And the promises we made and never fulfilled, entwined around a rope that keeps choking our faith. And like a soothing lullaby your voice comes sweeping across the wheat fields, stroking the golden stems, before it turns into an accusing shriek. And as a moon sneaks up behind cluttered clouds, the sky gets invaded by shades of sapphire. I curl up around myself, guarding it, and then comes a spasm and I violently implode wanting to part like a blaze of fire. What’s so common between such two seemingly separated elements? They are the opposite of each other, for when the body seeks rest and tranquility, the soul feeds off endurance and suffering. And in the middle of this everlasting clash, your conscious is held captive.
I hear a voice coming from the deep attics of my mind; it starts as a cackle, and then obtains a more hideous form. Telling me to disappear, to sink into the background and merge with it, but every where I looked, I was always confronted with mirrors. What sick force has mastered this art? Frantic and obsessed I dive into them feeling the glass slash through my skin burning memories on the edges of each scar. Soon a drop of blood finds its way across my cheeks and into my mouth, it tastes so sweet, so bitter, it tastes like metal. I don’t think anyone has ever experienced loss of will to live and returned intact. It’s in that exact place that you gain better understanding of life and lies. You no longer find a reason to live but can’t justify one to leave either. A thin line between utter madness and an unforgiving fate, it’s not white, it’s not grey, it’s just black and no matter how many times you turn the Rubik’s cube the blocks are always black yet they won’t join or fit in place.
I wake up on a mattress in what seems a bigger room, the mattress looks like it has seen better times and the walls could use a paint job. Scribbles and engravings on the wall soon turn vague and become figures eye balling me. Charging at the mysterious cell mates I pound myself into the walls expecting to feel the severe pain of the sound of a bone cracking beneath the pressure. Something has muffled the impact, it feels like fabric but it’s too dark to have a better view. Locked to my chest my arms struggle against the straight jacket and the new leather smell prevails over my senses. The floor absorbs my fall as I swayed harder to release the ever tightening mechanism. I let out a cry for help, then a shriek of angst. Tears stream down like showers as I cry and laugh simultaneously. The concurrent sonata is a master piece in its own way. Final awareness has been achieved as unseen audience applauses, and confetti of colors falls down in an imperial way. The small scraps turn into nails pinning me on stage as I witness the so far called flashback. What a cliché! What a lie!
Why won't you help me? Release me and let me put this mind to sleep to the sound of a bullet, the dagger slashing through my neck or the gargle of arsenic.