It’s a curious thing, this mind of mine. It fills my consciousness with these images – images of people, places, memories – and continually calls forth emotion after emotion attached to these long-lasting strings of images appearing ever faster and more frequently until it threatens to burst my head with these flashes of thoughts. It’s a very peculiar experience that has been happening frequently, for quite some time even. Perhaps it is trying to tell me something. Could I be ill? Could I be innately deranged? Could I be both? This unusual status, rotten from the normal state of my mind has taken a hold in my brain, and it is causing me a great deal of displeasure. Would it help if I told someone about these problems? Would it help if I told you?
You see, of late, my mind has been behaving a lot like that of Hamlet. Not in his prime, no, but reflective of the countenance he held while fooling the rest of Denmark – that is, of madness. For much like Lord Hamlet, my mind too has been filled with a compulsion to present oxymorons of many sorts – to act in hasty care, in dangerous safety, in reserved gall, in impudent modesty, in callous regard, in unfeeling passion. Yet unlike the Prince Hamlet, I fear that my condition is very much real, not a feigned façade. Yes, it is safe to say that I have gone mad of sorts. For even as I walk outside, these swirling masses of conflicted emotions hang about me, rendering an image most absurd, most insane to those around me, be it those that I know well or those that I know not. It is an air of insanity, one of confusion, burdened by the responsibility of hyperactive emotions, pained by the opposition of consciousness. Each one shows me a different path and this back and forth across the front lines of my being has left my mind tattered, in pieces. So it goes to follow that this war has leaked out of my mind and has trickled down into my very actions. Do you believe that this is a cause for concern, friend? Do you believe that my seeking your help is warranted?
I did not wish for this to happen. I did not choose to have this conflicted state. And even now, now that I am in this state, I simply wish for a way to stop this from affecting those dear to me. You are among the first I’ve told of my fractured soul, for I believe this has gone on for far too long. But quick, hide! Someone comes!
A person approaches. They seem to be friends, the one who’s conflicted and the one that just came, smiling to each other, exchanging tidbits of news, pieces of stories past. They sit down together, continuing their earlier conversation from a seated position, enjoying both the comfort of the chairs and of each other. Nothing out of place, nothing extraordinary, just two friends hanging out underneath the afternoon sun, exchanging talk with unemotional tongues.
Then the one who came takes leave to go and talk with someone else. He bids his farewell to her and then sets his chair down elsewhere. In the span of an instant, his face crumbles and turns into something entirely different, as if released from a cast of concrete after half a year. Wrinkles appear, previously hidden so well one would never have known they existed. Two glossy sparkles lie in the corner of his eyes. His head in his hand, he lets out a puff of air, brows twisted in anguish, his smile that of a grim reaper being slain. Shrugging it off, he slowly stands up, and walks back.
So, now that she’s gone, can you help me solve the mystery of my state?