HOME | DD

Description
It would start out at something quite subtle, almost on the edge of perception. In fact perhaps it starts before you even notice it. A face in a café window looks like a friend, and you dash over only to find that this figure has gone. Perhaps you try to unlock a stranger’s car. Small enough to pass off as nothing, but slowly and insidiously the fine needles of insanity probe. As you brush your teeth you’re sure a voice sounds from behind you, and you turn around. The door looks out of place. Is it on a different wall? No. Is it now opening from the left instead of right? No. But somehow it seems undeniably wrong yet when you walk through it, the corridor seems familiar and you just brush this episode off. Your friends comment that sometimes you begin a conversation halfway through, but you swear blind that you didn’t. It becomes unavoidable, and this anxiety hovers above your mind and the self doubt and constant questioning highlight more misplaced items, more confused double-takes and more cracked conversations. It worries you constantly and when you wake in the middle of the night, afraid now of what your mind might fabricate in the dark, you roll over and talk to the lover beside you. When they don’t reply you get angry but then as your eyes adjust to the dark you realise; this is a single bed. There is no-one next to me. No pictures of my partner are in frames around the room. The doctor refers you to a psychologist who, in a sing-song voice prescribes you some pretty pink pills. They worm bitterly down your throat and take away that edge of madness, no more disembodied voices or cold sweats in the night in rooms you can’t remember ever being in. But that’s not all they take away. They take away the hunger, the thirst. The zest of being alive. In robbing you of your insanity they have also subtracted a part of your humanity. You would rather live soberly with this dangerous disorder than live sanely and quietly through pink tinted dead eyes. The prescriptions keep coming but you just hide them away, lock them in a box out of sight, out of your mind. The taste of life flows back and you battle to keep the darkness at bay. Its no longer in your control now. The voices grow stronger, the daydreams stranger, the nights scarier. They won’t let you take those pills even if you wanted to. Until during a night broken by screams, your own? Not sure, there is a moment of apparent clarity and those pink angels, or demons, are uncovered. One by one they worm down your neck, taking the screams with it but bringing back the dullness. One by one until you’re sure the madness is gone, even if it means your sharpness is deadened. One by one until you grow so tired, so dull, so dead inside, you can’t take any more, even if you wanted to

Description
It would start out at something quite subtle, almost on the edge of perception. In fact perhaps it starts before you even notice it. A face in a café window looks like a friend, and you dash over only to find that this figure has gone. Perhaps you try to unlock a stranger’s car. Small enough to pass off as nothing, but slowly and insidiously the fine needles of insanity probe. As you brush your teeth you’re sure a voice sounds from behind you, and you turn around. The door looks out of place. Is it on a different wall? No. Is it now opening from the left instead of right? No. But somehow it seems undeniably wrong yet when you walk through it, the corridor seems familiar and you just brush this episode off. Your friends comment that sometimes you begin a conversation halfway through, but you swear blind that you didn’t. It becomes unavoidable, and this anxiety hovers above your mind and the self doubt and constant questioning highlight more misplaced items, more confused double-takes and more cracked conversations. It worries you constantly and when you wake in the middle of the night, afraid now of what your mind might fabricate in the dark, you roll over and talk to the lover beside you. When they don’t reply you get angry but then as your eyes adjust to the dark you realise; this is a single bed. There is no-one next to me. No pictures of my partner are in frames around the room. The doctor refers you to a psychologist who, in a sing-song voice prescribes you some pretty pink pills. They worm bitterly down your throat and take away that edge of madness, no more disembodied voices or cold sweats in the night in rooms you can’t remember ever being in. But that’s not all they take away. They take away the hunger, the thirst. The zest of being alive. In robbing you of your insanity they have also subtracted a part of your humanity. You would rather live soberly with this dangerous disorder than live sanely and quietly through pink tinted dead eyes. The prescriptions keep coming but you just hide them away, lock them in a box out of sight, out of your mind. The taste of life flows back and you battle to keep the darkness at bay. Its no longer in your control now. The voices grow stronger, the daydreams stranger, the nights scarier. They won’t let you take those pills even if you wanted to. Until during a night broken by screams, your own? Not sure, there is a moment of apparent clarity and those pink angels, or demons, are uncovered. One by one they worm down your neck, taking the screams with it but bringing back the dullness. One by one until you’re sure the madness is gone, even if it means your sharpness is deadened. One by one until you grow so tired, so dull, so dead inside, you can’t take any more, even if you wanted to