The kind of madness that does not delight in itself.

It is 6.06am on a Sunday morning.
I will have to book in by night time.
I am going to sleep till noon.
I have no intention of going for Mass.
I only have the intention of meeting people. Tangible people. Something I can comprehend. Something that does not have to be omni-potently uncomprehendable.



People ask me how I've been doing. But the gritty, dark details are not what they want to know. They would not sit with me and ask of such. Most people dont give a damn. I wonder why we ask each other when we dont really want to know. What an odd and strangely distant way of showing concern.



It is nights like these that are worst when one headily dives into. And this night, I shall, and I have. The kind of madness that maddens me so and yet I keep calm and steady in my seat. And steady as I sit with feet not still, within me things are brewing but without a flame. A feeling that sickens and beckons me alike.



The lengthy longings are slaying me and they keep me alive. A most unpleasent sensation. These eyes they wander and the mind wanders with them to somewhere distant far off this reality. To long for and wish to receive, knowing I will not receive, only wishing I could deceive deceive deceive myself into believing that I would and could have some sort of COMPANY. Maybe, perhaps, tis simply not more than the deep desperation of the the fairer company? I know for naught and I dare not know.



It is 6.35am on a Sunday morning.

And I am done with todays darkness.