Insanity - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There are radio waves around your head all the time, but if you had never seen or heard of a radio you'd call me insane for saying they were there. The same is true of the dark voices and the lone true voice of the light, of love. They're all there and we are all "radios," but some of us have the dial turned way up. All of our ideas come from them, the voices, our role is to choose right from wrong, love from hate, good from evil. We need the intellectual capacity to understand, yet the most important part is a heart loving enough to only tune to the divine voice. Call me crazy if you will, but I know who I hear and He is my eternal friend.
Insanity was my curse, it was the thing I feared above all else. I'm cured. The strange thoughts that once sunk me into new realities with graceful ease, never leaving a trace or a clue they had taken hold, still come and go like they did before. Each is a florid daydream, not viewed like a movie, but lived in first person. I'm always the main character, elevated and heroic, a delusion of grandeur I suppose. I like them that way, it's much better than a mundane life. So if the thoughts still come how is it I say I'm cured? A true delusion is a fixed false belief that gains traction, like a tire on the road, it drives a person in different directions, often erratic and toward disaster. Mine have become more like a glorious ferris wheel, taking me to to new fantastic views of life, but unable to alter my direction or fundamental beliefs. So what once required medications no longer does. The "delusions" are no more than daydreams with extra kick. I'm stone cold sane. In fact, I'll wager I'm safer from insanity than anyone else. Others can still fall, still become lost in the mental maze, but I can't.
Insanity stole into her mind like a deranged thief, taking what was important to her, adding new dangerous ideas, seeding a new personality and muddling up the rest. New sparks of ideas that once she would have dismissed as bizarre started to grow roots, deep roots, they started to make sense in one revolutionary eureka moment after another, cascading out of control, luring her further and further from the self she once knew, until she was so deep that she no longer recognised the forest around her, paths twisted and turned out of sight, so dense were the trunks, she followed one path wildly after another, making new connections in her new distorted reality, after a while she had trodden the new paths so much that they formed an inescapable maze, a prison without walls.
In a madhouse, sanity looks crazy. But in truth, conformity is insane.
From the shadows steps a figure hunched beneath a cloak as black as the night. From the inky folds extends a withered brown hand, clasping a bamboo cane that clacks onto the cracked sidewalk. From the long silver hair that hangs forwards, obscuring every part of her face, I assume this is a woman of some advanced years. As she approaches I hear her talking, talking as if the conversation is two way. With footfalls that overlap one another her progress is slow and halting. I move to the side and keep walking at my usual pace, fast, but not enough to break a sweat. Up closer there is a smell like stale alcohol and cigarettes and then her face tilts up alarmingly, her features more heavily lined than a walnut. The lips that stretch over toothless gums move and she speaks as if her throat were sandpaper. “Stop!” and she raises the stick into my path, “don't walk through Edward! It's rude!”
Insanity is killing your mother planet for something that isn't real. Money isn't real - a fact that has been known for more than a century. That isn't a conspiracy theory, it is verifiable truth. We can devise global systems that don't rely on money, where everyone is cared for... but that's mad, right? Let's stay in this system where people starve to death and the rest of us are slaves. Are we too stupid to imagine a world where we all simply volunteer to do the jobs that need doing for the benefit of our species and the entire planet? We can work on saving the world Monday to Friday and relax on the weekend... or not... it's our choice...
In my nightmares I am trapped on a mental ward. I can’t move my hands without feeling the restriction of the straps. My head is as clear, no trace of the “madness.” I strain against the black polyester with every ounce of strength and still I can’t budge. My back hurts right from the base of my spine to the tail bone. Saliva is pooling in the back of my mouth. The staff have gone. I am alone. Heart pounding ready to explode, my eyes scan left and right for signs of someone coming to help. No-one. Worn green curtains hang limp on flaking chrome rings and though the gap passers by pay me no attention at all.
I am back in my personal hell. A cheap analogue clock ticks loudly on a nearby wall, each second marked. I need to turn, I need to swallow and mindless squirming won’t help - so I think of watching the show” 24,” what would Jack Bauer do? I turn in the thumb of my right hand, fold it in as flat as possible and pull, not caring if it dislocates. My hand comes right out. Then I do the same with the left. Even with two hands free it isn’t enough, I can’t turn. If I sit up I may be caught and re-tied too tight for this little trick to work a second time. I point my right foot so hard the muscles become painful and I twist it until it is free, but my left is bound too tight. I twist, some relief for my back and easier to swallow. A nurse comes and says “Oh, I see they untied you.” I agree and manage a staged smile, she unstraps my last leg and I turn to my side. I’m sure Bauer would be out of here by now, armed and dangerous, but not me. I’m a pacifist, scared of the “professional care” that leaves me scarred on the inside. The bleach tinctured ward fades and the nightmare intensifies to the next level.
No longer is the door open, no bright light comes from the hallway. No handle, no way out. Four concrete walls, a linoleum floor, a toilet with no paper and a bare mattress - this “seclusion room” is a prison cell by another name...
I'm normal. I'm good! Why are you looking at me like that? Your mouth is so wide. Did you know that you have really pretty teeth? I like your teeth. I want to pull out each glossy white tooth and put them in my Ziploc bag to add to my collection. Now, where is it? I'm sure I have it on me somewhere. Why are you walking away from me? WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY FROM ME? Thank you. Your hair is really pretty in the sunlight. It's red, it's like the sun. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it stop it. You don't deserve to have hair like that. Sun-kissed, auburn, the last embers in a fire. You're a bitch.
STOP RUNNING. I SAID STOP. Why are you making that face? Why are you making those terrible sounds? Haha. Stop teasing me. Why don't you love me? I hate the smell of blood. Metallic. Sickly. But yours is beautiful. It stains the pavement, it glows in the setting sun. It blooms from your scalp, nearly the colour of that thick, wonderful hair. Oh, there's my Ziploc bag. It was in my pocket, what about that? Haha. I can be so stupid sometimes.
Feel like everyone else is mad, only you know the truth, everything is becoming clear, strange ideas are making total sense, paranoia, belief in far out ideas, brain searching for the truth, brain connecting dots that have nothing to do with one another, feeling lucid, intense feelings, hallucinations, hearing voices, feeling possessed.
Georgie ran her fingers across the warm, puffy cheek of her daughter. Sophie's hair was silky soft and golden, draping across her sleeping face in innocent ringlets. The small, pink fingers were wrapped around her Bear, fidgeting with the ears. It was in moments like this that Georgie forgot the monster inside of her child. The demon that haunted her dark blue eyes and controlled her every move. The demon she had come here to kill.
Georgie closed her fingers around the cold handle of the knife. She plucked it from the back pocket of her jeans and, her hand shaking, raised it above the child's heart.
She took at deep breath, listening to it rattle inside of her.
Her ears pulsed to her heartbeat, her mind eerily silent, like it was waiting for something.
She clutched the knife with both hands. The knife she had used to cut the strawberries that Sophie would eat by the handful. The knife she had used to slice grilled-cheese sandwiches for sunlit lunches on the terrace, Sophie curled in her lap. The knife she now used to kill her own daughter.
Georgie felt her heart break as she took one last look at her baby. Her eyes welled with tears and she gasped for breath, drowning in a sea of doubt.
But this had to be done.
Just as she pushed down the knife, Sophie's eyes opened.
She felt the ice-cold breath of the demon chill her heart and sprinkle her arms with goosebumps. She felt the eyes of the monster bore into her, almost taunting.
Just do it, it said to her. Just try.
Sophie blinked her long, thick eyelashes, her mouth twisted in confusion. Still, Georgie could see the monster in her eyes. The twisted, malevolent grin on it's face. The way it licked razor-sharp fangs, as if preparing for a kill.
"What are you doing, Mommy?" Sophie said.
Belief again was another word that toiled my tongue. I had never ceased to believe in my accusative non-belief, though it was all a lie. I did believe. Why else would I be amongst headstones, begging the stone and flesh alike as if it were alive. I believed it was, as much as I loathed to admit such silliness. There was always that desire though, that desire to believe in something beyond the stone and flesh, something that still beat under the earth, just too silently to be heard. Maybe that's why I craved the silence. So I could place mine ear upon the soil and listen for the slow thrum of a heart.
The Glutton of the Garden. That's who I was and what I felt akin to in this newly shed light. Perhaps prevailing from the cars, I did not dare to look I presume. A fat rat ill fitted to skulking about the filthy shadows. Picking at the most meagre of meals and making ends meet, but at the same time being seen as a glutton. Gorging myself on the few pleasures I could endure without feeling sick. Though sick I was and often. Not of any illness known to me, but of being sick of sickness. The sibilant, cacophonic sound of that word when intermingled with itself only alluded to how often it plagued my mouth. Seeping out of it every now and then to pursue my rightful sympathy from others less fortunate than I. Although, I was indeed sick of it all, I had never tired of it's sweet sting, oh Romeo. There I go again with the sibilant antics of my dry tongue. One that has slithered it's way into many a poor heart. Only to indulge endlessly from them to satisfy my sanguine thirst for sympathy over acts that were either unimportant, ironic or simply confounded beyond my limited belief.