Friday, 4 November 2011

Sin... Bonfire of the Sanities

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November, porridge, poetry and plots.

Hmmm... Don't think it goes quite like that, does it? Isn't it something about gunpowder and treason? I'd ask the goodly Mr. Fawkes, he was ever the bright spark, but I hear he went with a bang.

Hardee-har. I'm so hilarious sometimes. Sometimes. Honest. You've got to laugh, haven't you? Or you'll cry.

Ask my father. He'd laugh. I'd cry.

Anywho. Gunpowder, porridge and pus. I mean plot. I think.

I'm a bit hazy-wazy-double-dazy today, so you'll have to forgive me. Well, I suppose you don't actually have to... I can't force you to. It's entirely your decision, but a (un)healthy dose of Risperdal has me dancing with the pixies and snorting fairy dust - much like Luscious Lily was prone to do.

I had to. I had to kick off so they'd give me that little prick of purgatory that washes away - or at least dilutes - the cries and the memories. They came on a little too strong this morning and I felt as if I had the entire audience of a Justin Bieber concert in my head, except the atrocities that caused it were more horrific than even that. It doesn't often take me that way. Not quite as bad. They're there almost constantly, but it's a wave in the background, the cries little more than a far off sea-gull's call.

This morning, however, I was center stage, and no-one was throwing their knickers at me or hoping I'd invite them backstage for a 30 second fumble.

So I threw a wobbler and they were kind enough to catch it and administer their antidote. Wipe you out, that's their philosophy. Drown your sorrows in a sea of drugs. Or throw you in Room 101. Depends on whether there's a 'D' in the day or if they can be arsed, I suppose. There's no rhyme nor rational behind some of their decisions.

I was thankful, this morning, that they'd had their leg over last night, or they couldn't be bothered with the fight to drag me off to the Room. It was the drugs that I wanted, and today the Verve were wrong. The drugs did work. To a certain extent. Enough to dull the roar and to soften the screams.

It's Bonfire Night tomorrow. A celebration, of sorts, of a plot to blow up the government and all who sailed in her. If I could control this beast within me, I wonder if I could let off fireworks of a different kind - an all consuming fire that would reduce my guilt to a glowing pile of ash and embers.

Then I could be the phoenix rising, born anew, and my salvation would be at hand.

Let me hear you say 'I believe!'

No? Yeah... Probably right. There's been enough fireworks from me to last a thousand lifetimes, even though those thousands didn't last very long.

They don't let us have a fireworks display, of course. Not even sparklers. I don't blame them, to be honest - this is an asylum, after all. There's enough fireworks on a daily basis without adding fuel to the fire.

Today, I feel like a Catherine Wheel. Dizzily showering off sparks, as round and round I go.

Where I stop, nobody knows.

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