Cure For Insanity

A big sack of rancid flesh

rots within the folds of an unmade bed

windows closed, lights tuned to a dim glow

His body remains immobile

except for his hands

fiddling around

trying in vain to solve a rubix cube.

Colorful little box

he believes that deep secrets

are trapped inside,

secrets that when revealed

will make everything clear.

The TV projects the faint buzz of 24/7 news.

The world in a constant state of crisis.

Multicoloured emotions are broadcast as oversaturated electronic light

rage, despair, grief, hope, poverty, agony

a kaleidoscope of identities and displaced personalities

projected into his room for entertainment.

He pays the white noise no mind.

It's just a subliminal message that's not worth hearing.

A sunlight spear darts through the window

impaling his dried out eyes

excavating them, trying to drag out

an emotional response.

He cries out in pain.

An appropriate response to the stimuli.

Weary of what's to come he stands, a tremendous effort.

He closes the shades and moves on to his medicine cabinet

thinking back to the numerous therapy sessions he took part in.

The psychologists glasses gleam maliciously.

A Notebook lies in veiny hands that scribble and scratch

directed by a steady nodding head

trying to make sense of the jerky avant garde beats

generated by the psycho’s slippery drug induced rants.

According to the psychologist,

his patient is trapped between the borders

of sanity and insanity

a claustrophobic narrow space

that sits between two massive suction tubes.

Opposing nameless forces pull him in both directions

towards vast ever expanding infrastructures

one neat and ordered, with clear symmetrical directions

the other disordered and unstable

spread out all over the place with no clear design

balanced on a powdery styrofoam foundation.

The whispers of society tear his body and mind apart.

He can do nothing but float and watch other people zoom around

navigating between different worlds with ease

changing faces as they adapt to social norms

like graceful, fluid wax that can melt and become solid

according to the temperatures whims

unlike the rigid steel anchor that resits oceanic currents.

In order to move forward

he must choose a side

and find a role to play in the complex structure.

He finds this advice vague and unhelpful

just a confusing pseudo-intellectual monologue

delivered by a psychologist who thinks its a poet

and a pretty bad one at that.

Such a dirty hypocrite.

Mind returning from bogged down memories

he cracks open the medicine cabinet

reaching out for his prescribed mood medications

a wide selection to choose from

happy, sad, angry, depressed, calm

morose, excited, overjoyed, stressed.

The complexity of emotion

segregated and trapped inside little pills

that will cure his intense apathy

they’ll make him feel and think

like a normal person

capable of adapting emotionally to different scenarios.

With his ID card containing a barcode identity

he can purchase mood medicine from any store or vending machine.

They’re not hard to find because everyone needs them

to feel human and whole

to become more than human machinery.   

He decides to take an optimism pill

mixed with a happy pill.

Electrical synapses fire like trigger happy cops inside his brain

shooting down disturbing thoughts.

He opens the door with his rubix cube and pill bottle in hand

ready to play the role of a functional human being.