A Mind

A Mind

         As the first of your steps echo evermore, you can tell you're home. The paintings: blue, green, red splattered upon the wall--absent of canvas and restriction--flowed with the endless curve of the room: a secluded, peaceful dome. Featherweight showers of light: yellow and pink cascade from the peak of an endless arch, from the heavens; confetti never touching the ground, but floating just above it as if caught in an invisible ocean of brilliance. They makes soft tinkling as your feet move through the glittering sea. The walls are a soft green, and the lights that coat the ground reflect a mood of peace, happiness, and for the most part, tranquility.

         Save only a door.

         As will happen to anything good and peaceable, demons, imperfections take root, disguised as righteousness among normalcy and euphoriant foundations. This evil comes to your scene of serenity as a door--locked and welded shut--standing immobile at the very epicenter of your hearth: a Pandora’s Box--rough to the touch, and deceptively captivating. A tomblike sheen embroiders its countenance with promise of bliss, of allegiance, and of wonder causing counterfeit manifestations of sanctity, ecstasy, and delirium. You are so enthralled that you immediately move to open it, only to find yourself rebuked by the domes self-preservation; the door's hinges rust and blight in light of your intrusion as to fortify its bulwark; it wards off your petty exertions with ease. You become slowly obsessed by the entrancing aura of this evil place, this deformity, this dead zone, wooed by its everlasting completion--its promise--frequently recalled to its coercive temptations again and again, dimming the everlasting light of the dome: once upon a time was your Utopia, and is now a withering veneer of lies and deciet. Anger pulses through your body as you stand before the door, Why!? This was your choice, why should this place decide for you, why should it decide anything!? A home doesn't choose what should take place inside, it accepts what goes on in silent repose. Its will cannot surpass that of its keeper!

         And with these sordid thoughts, a metallic clank resounds throughout the room echoing death within its wake, capturing everything amicable within its grasp and sucking the once radiant--ravishing--scene within a newly formed door, shiney and lustrous, which holds ground directly beside the one now ajar. A subtle perception accents your senses, a synthesis of roughness, pain, decay, and blackness twisting upon itself and exploding into desolation at the center of your sanity. This ravages the dome, tearing huge holes in the walls: the foundations of your psyche. A stench billows. The colors of blood replace your paintings, death replaces the life you had and resounds throughout your new Eden, now empty but of you and your obsession. The world fills you: deceit, hatred, lies, betrayal, destruction, loneliness, cheating, sorrow, and pain beyond comprehension sate your subconscious hunger and self-mutilation. Then your blood runs cold, cold as ice; you welcome it's frosty chill as Pandora's Box opens its maw to its full extent to meet you, and your life becomes tainted by your own action, at the defiance of your own mind, and at the defiance of yourself.

         Your Utopia, your haven, your mind, is corrupt.

         You gave in to the temptation of the World, an entity, a monster, whose stench captivates you from afar always seeking to destroy while never giving in.

         You gave it control, you gave it your head already setup in the guillotine with one hand on the lever, ready to destroy yourself.

         There’s always that chance you might reopen the other side of your psyche in your mindless wandering within the maze that is now omnipresent in your mind, yet its will is much more powerful than before.

         But look at the silver lining, at least you got what you wanted.

A Mind,
By Tilli.