Months attach like moths to the swollen ear. The ear bleeds in anonymity. The body swallows days as capsules with a glass of shimmering water. One looks and looks only to find oneself curling along the circles of life. The body grieves to the point of madness. What is madness? It is the last breath breaking forth from the centrifuge of chest, the arrow that darts like a skewed, wandering eye in the blind nest of the sky. Madness is the legitimate answer to this incongruent universe. The body spins in and out, attaching and detaching, trying to find the scale of balance. The body cries like an orphaned lump of mass birthed into a universe where sense is more absent than present. Days align to the side of the mouth, become branches of clots. Clots dance in the valley of the absurd. Madness is the dot on the forehead dancing into the red, hot sun seeking its revenge. Madness is the unleashed tongue, long held back, now loose, now uglier than ever chanting that which unnerves, that which dislocates, that which spills. Madness is the shivering body in a shower, soaked in its desperation, counting backwards the syllables to its origin; madness is the body being torn apart by the truths that do not sit, that now dance like mammoth figures on the clown’s shaved head; madness is the ugly eye of truth protruding from all corners, no more tied into the knot of structure, of imposed morality, of seismic knowledge. Madness is the truth as it is, red, uneven, scarred, ready to consume anyone who is not ready for it.
©️ Aakriti Kuntal