Melancholy

The wheel spins but the hamster is dead...

Sometimes I sit for days locked in the Oubliette of my Cranial Cavern. Sweat laden walls slicker than the light poles ceremoniously greased every Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Thick, moist, cottony thoughts trudging through my mental mire. Quicksand. Every cavitation, reverberation of breath causing the innumerable appendages that grapple at the flesh. Gnawing to make purchase and facilitate the continued descent into oblivion.

If I could just wake up. This must be a fever dream. Sleep paralysis. A Nocturnal Nightmare of noxious electrical impulses. Neurons ricocheting off pillar and post. Stem to stern.

Baby. I’m wasted. All I want to do is drive home to you.

Don’t think about all those things you fear. Just be glad to be here…right? I think my fears come true. Do you feel the same way too? Fears at the helm of a sinister laboratory. Maniacal laughter reverberating through the halls like a horrendously autotuned operatic novella of The Confederacy of Dunces. Mixing cocktails of mismatched neurochemicals. The Mad Mixologist. The Mad Arab? IA! IA! Cthulhu Fthagn!

Sleep. A sweet surrender or a one way ticket to The Isle of Dr. Moreau? Whatever the verdict of this Peanut Gallery Psychological Supreme Court, one thing is true beyond a reasonable doubt: The Wheel Keeps Spinning But The Hamster Is Dead.