relax, it's just relapse

Be careful of the thoughts you let seep into your head, for once they're in, they'll run away with you.

Two men stood in opposition, one manifesting out of a dark corridor, any corridor; the other immobile, sprawled on the couch, staring into blankness. The latter, in panic, did not move. He could not keep his eyes on the television screen in front of him; rather, in malfunction, the strings wound the eyes so as to direct them into the space where the perpetrator lay in wait, both figures in constant alert.

My head does not work properly. And it's stiff. I can see you.

Dark air strangely crystallizes into motion, particles run amiss and free-flowing when you're drowning. For a moment, the guy on the couch sat up-right, his eyes closing in on something in the shadows; he would frequently repeat this movement - Ah, I can see you, trying to crawl on the sly, I'm watching you.

It was a game of intimidation, the man's eyes relentless against the dark space, looking for red lasers that'll shoot into his head - this goes on for hours, now drained the rawest passion - plain and savage the wrath which the space held ascribed his otherwise absurd fear to acts of which only Man is wholly capable. The standoff never concludes; there is never victory, and thus far, the creature remains content to sink back and lie in wait. Snickering. Always countering your puny courage with its pesky game. I float to him through the open and distant current, as burning scraps to be gobbled by the flames. He toys with my absurd desperation, it seems. I don't know how that makes me feel. He'll only appear each time I'm drowning through the air, arousing in me suspicion regarding how many days he's been hiding in my house.

And I sit back, drained, bathed in filth, too lazy to care; in miserable fear, but too lazy to care. For a moment, there's something vague, a slogan or a rationale resonating the sanity of a few days ago - but I can only perceive what I can see. And if the strings peacefully unwind, a stranger quickly sprints across the air to a hole in the bathroom or behind a fern.

My demeanor in that sordid state denotes a will to live akin to that of an unpleasant little creature, a rat who steals. His stomach too stuffed, its wretched state the same in death as in its hiss for self-preservation. Humans are a bit different, in that they can despise the animal rush after and while they're stuffing their senses. Had the little creature bemused upon his current condition before the onset of that unyeilding metal, he most likely would fall due to indecision. As I wrote this, a scribbled mark of ink dashed for the opposite end of the page, and only a firm squashing of the bug brought back the calm. My leather chair at the desk is a hooded man slouched over conspiring with a surround speaker- it wears the mask of a speaker on its head, eyes and all, one wooden arm bent leaning on the desk; and the flying stars of the computer screen shoot at me and beyond off the glass of the coffee table. As the illusions disintegrate, as they always do, whether by the intial stupor or the fear, I can speak in tones with solid foundation, but I still see what I see, approaching closer to subsitute the senses.

Be careful of the ideas you imbed into your head, ideas you grow to cling to, because then the loss of ambition begins with your thoughts.

You're gnawing away at it like a rat, no wonder you float with the colors through the dark night. The end of the ordeal, often frequent and regretful, you lie back vulnerable and with profound discontent; gradually, as the haze clears, you're relieved you weren't taken in fully by something that was not there. A heart attack would probably strike before your deepest fear came to be. But then again... Lastly, a wretched creature, weilding an axe you're unaccuostomed to in building a path, or living off abundance of supply to live through life feeding that animal drive, never disposing the remainder of what you know you'll need later.