Turmoil of mind is an eloquent specter, I’d say…
It haunts and it torments discretely, at first tugging gently on sanity’s strings before it recedes once again to the darkness, conspiring with macabre devices.
Elusive, but present, it expertly rouses the profoundest of terrors with a skill that escapes all good reason. Anguished, restless, the mind staggers backwards, off-guard and unready to parry the onslaught of unannounced evils that can’t be predicted.
Sometimes, lethargically creeping, it leaches inward slowly to worm through the brain, spreading dreary shade thick as mud, oozing its way into every little mind's recess.
And sometimes it swirls up and inwards, a vigorous whirlwind, to spin and to sputter and flail into the small corners of consciousness 'till there is naught but a crumbling ruin, a disaster of absolute havoc, where fighting’s a skirmish that’s versus a foe manifested away from our comprehension.
When fallen down into these fatal pits, we can’t simply cry out in hopes of salvation delivered. Unlike the more physical beasts of disease, whose corporeal form can be treated and healed, this foe is a secretive rogue with the cruelest intentions.
In clandestine secrecy, those demons press with the weight of a world, tearing tendon, straining strength until weakness prevails and the fast overwhelming oppression compresses us. At the end, it should clatter down hard into hazes of searing hot shards. The clamoring splinters ring out through crossroads between the subconscious and conscious, a junction where merciless violence leaves cauterized wounds, and these wounds will conceal the real pain in plain sight like a sleight of hand swindle.
But such eerie silences outside the despondent depths of our cognizance constructs the fake sense of a serene existence. It’s hardly living. It’s more like survival, a struggle just to maintain composure. Within, noise is thunderous, specters scream vengeance in villainous tones. Yet the cool breezes blowing without wouldn’t indicate more than inclement weather.
The evidence lies in the eyes who stare bleakly, stare blankly across vast expanses of space and extend like a misted and darkening field choked in vaporous, poisonous, fog.
The proof is revealed most often by plastic complexions and falsified laughter, or smiles which lack any gladness, absolved of all joy.
For in spite and in malice, each moment of joy is stolen so swiftly by deft, subtle hands of and invisible thief who can skillfully snatch away pleasure, leaving few scattered scraps, just some cool embers of life that lie glowing but fading to black. This enemy’s not to be shrugged off with nonchalance, not taken lightly, as many will do.
The fiend won’t acknowledge our rules of engagement. Its enmity blows, resolutely enclosed in a frigid-air gust; we feel but don’t face it for fear of the frostbite. New tools must be made, and imbued with the elements that allow them to tear into the shadows. These weapons should transcend the mind and slice deeply, slip deftly straight down into the spectral flesh of depression.
Yes, it’s an elegant specter, say I.