Woken after forty-eight days.
Wake up and see the world,
for what it really is.
Not everyone else's world,
but my own reality.
Truth comes with time,
how right that seems now.
To anyone else,
I would have seemed mad.
Keeping pace with the story,
of the mental shadow dance.
It would have seemed impossible,
but I could see the undercurrent.
A constant drive for one thing,
in a kaleidoscope of mental change.
To watch a search doomed to fail,
for someone that will never be known.
The unobtainable picture of self,
always out of reach.
Slipping through those fingers,
every grasp trying harder.
(c) 18 October 1998 20:06, Fnagaton.