It is a dangerous place this thing. The human mind. It is full of traps far worse than those of the very worst dungeons. Perils farther reaching than an entire galaxy. And creatures so horrible that even those in deathless sleep have not the time to dream them.
[Witness to the nightmare.]
It is in this place that things that can't be seen or named stand, that visions beyond comprehension are their and present to comprehend, that sanity is an overture - never quite its own self, and never quite complete - to a piece without reason or end.
You could paint the world red with blood and the blackest char and rust and fire and screams and still, there is worse held deep within the human mind. When one goes... Mad. You have to ask yourself, have they broken, are they not working properly? Or is it something else. Is it that they simply understand the world around them as it truthfully is. The human eye sees what it wants to see. The ear hears what it wants to hear. Scent, touch, taste - the same. But the human mind... Holds tight its grip of the truth so that those other senses can keep their sensibility.
And in a sense, I have evacuated the world that was - laterally. Not moving forward, and never losing ground. Simply a sidestep of what once was. A surreality in a sense, and in a lack-there-of. I'm not in my world anymore, so whose world is it? It can't be mine, if it were I'd be more comfortable while in it, especially in my own skin. Yet, lately, all I do is seek to leave my skin. To make an exit to something more interesting.
Not death. That would be stupid. Not an escape from life, though maybe from a mortal coil. The mind can triumph over death, in a manner of speaking. That dungeon can have a heart of undeath. That galaxy, a mind of light ever expanding. And with that deathless sleep, even dreams may die.
[Witness to the nightmare.]
It is in this place that things that can't be seen or named stand, that visions beyond comprehension are their and present to comprehend, that sanity is an overture - never quite its own self, and never quite complete - to a piece without reason or end.
You could paint the world red with blood and the blackest char and rust and fire and screams and still, there is worse held deep within the human mind. When one goes... Mad. You have to ask yourself, have they broken, are they not working properly? Or is it something else. Is it that they simply understand the world around them as it truthfully is. The human eye sees what it wants to see. The ear hears what it wants to hear. Scent, touch, taste - the same. But the human mind... Holds tight its grip of the truth so that those other senses can keep their sensibility.
And in a sense, I have evacuated the world that was - laterally. Not moving forward, and never losing ground. Simply a sidestep of what once was. A surreality in a sense, and in a lack-there-of. I'm not in my world anymore, so whose world is it? It can't be mine, if it were I'd be more comfortable while in it, especially in my own skin. Yet, lately, all I do is seek to leave my skin. To make an exit to something more interesting.
Not death. That would be stupid. Not an escape from life, though maybe from a mortal coil. The mind can triumph over death, in a manner of speaking. That dungeon can have a heart of undeath. That galaxy, a mind of light ever expanding. And with that deathless sleep, even dreams may die.