I don't need a psychiatrist. Gimme a clean sheet, a pen, quiet solitude, and time.
"You're psychotic!" they scream.
I've no need for a padded room. There's no windows, no adequate light, no means to write.
"You're abnormal!" they yell.
We've all the time, until it ends suddenly - when the solitary walker misteps and stumbles into an uncharted chasm.
"You're morbid!" they decide.
"No, you're morbid. You, with the crucifix. You, with the wooden beads. You, clinging foetally to manufactured miracles. You, with unquestioned knowledge. You, swinging your Truth cudgel. You, with your prelapsarian dreams, awaiting your zombie Redeemer. You, with your righteousness and your righteous indignation and your righteous condemnation. You, with your eternal Forms. You, who stumbled out of the cave. You, facing a setting sun and hoping it does not rise again," I whisper inaudiably - a pipsqueak noise emanating from a body exhausted by the senuous tortures of saccharine Sadists.
"You're free!" their voices boom.
"But everywhere I was in chains," I finally fall onto the cold sterile pavement-earth but , sadly, my maggot friends are no more. Alone. Alone. The chalky goodness of progress seeps into my flesh.
"You're finished!" they deafen me. Silence, sweet silence; now I can create.
