I knew a boy
Who was a schizophrenic.
And not in a beautiful way.
Not in the way they show them
In the movies.
It was the most painful thing to witness;
Somebody crumble between distorting realities.
He lived in my neighbourhood
And my mother told me to keep clear.
He would sit on the front lawn,
Laughing along to a joke
Nobody else could hear.
He would draw obscure things with chalk
On the road
Before his father could bring him in.
Sometimes I’d hear his faint hollers
In the night;
A fight with the demon
That was too cruel
To reveal itself to others.
The demon that perched on his shoulders
And held dominion over this boy.
It was 3 one morning
When police and ambulance lights
Glittered the neighbourhood sky
And people opened their doors to the noise
And pushed their children back to bed.
I had a heavy pulling in my chest;
Someone telling me, ‘He could have been OK. He should have lived like the rest of us.’
A week later a rumour went around
About how he left a note by his drawer
'I hope the place I end up
Is more real than the place I lived.
I hope I’m not insane,
I hope people believe what I say.
People can pray to Gods
And hope spirits heal them.
I guess I might have done the same things.
What made me any different?
I guess there was no epistemic distance.
They were always with me, even when I didn’t want them to be.
Judging from the unanswered prayers of others,
I guess God can’t afford to stick around.
The world will be insane.
The world will fall apart
Like I did
A million times over.
—Distorting Realities // W.J (via cascadingletters)