It
doesn't take much for the world to collapse within itself and
suddenly you're standing on a ledge of crumbling grass looking out
over the infinite blackness that tugs so sweetly on your hand calling
you to step forward. Fly. Fall. Into the space between stars. Still,
I don't know when the dreams started. Maybe the car accident. Or when
I took to wandering lonely streets and dark alleys in the dead of
night. Maybe it was when I started cliff diving or walking the
highway with cars whizzing past on either side, horns blaring. Maybe
when I played chicken with the trains or walked the ledge of my
highrise apartment, dark eyes closed.
Whenever
they started didn't matter though. Dreams I could handle, even
welcomed. Hell, I had quite the collection of nightmares, enough to
open my own little shop of horrors. No, what bothered me, was when
the phantoms followed me through the veil, tearing holes in the
delicate butterfly wing fabric of my mind, to reach me in the waking
world. To wink at the corner of my eye.
Yeah,
that kind of pissed me off.
And
part of me knew. Knew I was losing it, that really, truly I was going
mad. He
even told me so.
Which
begs the question, if a figment tells you you're mad, are you really
mad at all? Crazy people aren't meant to know they're crazy, right?
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