A mind can sometimes needle and thread itself back after it's been torn. It'll take the frayed ends and carefully, painstakingly, reconcile one fabric brother to its separated kin of the cloth. Disappointment can tear. Failure can tear. Betrayal can tear. A strong (or lucky) mind can mend.
Sometimes it's new, the reconstructed consciousness. New lessons sometimes find their way into the patchwork stitched. Bound a certain way, it can no longer unravel this 1 way. Life and circumstance will have to find another angle to initiate its rip through ours.
They can be tight, these new bonds, or they can be loose. Prone to separation. The gentle, curious, pseudo-masochistic tug at the loose end. Can topple the delicate house of cards. Made of cloth. Soft.
Doused in fear, rinsed in doubt, set aflame by the taunting flame of provocation, minds preternaturally prey to psychotic psychoanalyzing predators.
The wolves sometimes prowl in one's own mind, in shadows, waiting for common sense to falter. Then they pounce. Reason bitten into/deep/pain and jerked into bits tattered. Rational thought active becomes deranged defensive. The world so wide closes in. The doors shut. The windows shutter. The heart shudders. It can only watch and beat on, a little quicker, to send out some warning, to anyone who will listen but no one is listening it's all in you head remember? it's all inside WHAT ARE YOU THINKING. no exclamation point. just calm mania.
Tssst... cold rag your scorched senses... Wake in a room padded with patchwork white. Suited in white and bound with broad white ropes. It's tape but it's ropes. They strap your arms when you want them to strap your neck and give you just enough length. To kick the chair out from under to see stars to smell ether to feel burn temporary before eternal. To live once before death.
Spend your sense on product worth the currency.
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