satinmoon70

[satinmoon70]

Shadows of the Mind: schizophrenia

In the labyrinth of thought, where shadows linger,

where echoes weave through invisible threads,

the mind ignites with flickering lights,

a carnival of spectres and whispers,

a tapestry woven in fear and splendour,

a dance of thoughts—both gentle and tempestuous.

What is reality? A question haunting,

skimming the surface of a still lake,

distorted reflections ripple, taunting,

where familiarity bathes in uncertainty,

and certainty wears a mask of doubt.

I stand on the precipice of perception,

as voices murmur in the corridors of my soul,

their tones a cocktail of warmth and cold—

sweet nothings dance into the air,

while shadows gather like storm clouds.

Scenes unfold in pixelated patterns,

a kaleidoscope of moments, spun from silk and ash,

a rain of laughter collides with silent tears,

fragmented truths, pieced together clumsily,

until clarity becomes a mirage in the desert of thought.

In the realm of disjunction—

a friend, a foe, a fleeting whisper—

I chase their spectral forms through tangled vines,

their faces change with each glance.

I reach for the truth, it slips through my fingers,

a ghostly echo that eludes my grasp.

Oh, what power lies in the unseen,

in the silent battle of mind’s tapestry,

where every thread tells a story unasked,

in the stillness, I hear the urgent clamour,

the pulse of a universe that is both mine and not,

a stage where roles blur in the haze of recollection.

Thought stories tumbling like autumn leaves,

spiralling into nothingness yet rich in colour,

each one a sunbeam, each one a shadow,

in pursuit of coherence, I lose my way,

navigating the fog with tentative steps,

through the echoes that guide and mislead—

a wolf disguised in the robes of friendship,

a light flickering like candle flames in a storm.

Loneliness does not dress itself in rags,

it wears the guise of familiar faces, sitting

beside me in crowded halls, where laughter

springs forth, but I drown, muffled beneath the

sound of grace’s delusion, and the heart, in its

aching expanse, whispers is this life, or is this

artifice spun from despair?

The colours of my thoughts bleed into one another,

smeared canvases of joy and dread—

vivid reds bleed into murky greys,

a palette scattered with the brushstrokes of fear,

yet woven underneath, delicate strands of hope,

a thread glimmering in the chaotic weave,

a whisper that perhaps—dreams still bloom.

In the quiet moments, when darkness descends,

I delve deeper into the whispers, navigating,

unravelling the meanings spun from complex webs,

weaving through nocturnal landscapes of memory,

trying to stitch together the fabric set askew,

when reality tugs sharply against the seams,

sometimes with gentle fingertips, sometimes with claws.

Voices, like familiar songs, warp and mingle—

a melody that turns bitter in uncharted waters,

they tell me of dreams that flutter and fall,

of new beginnings sprouting from familiar ground,

yet the sweet promise always tangled with thorns,

assurance and anxiety become bedfellows,

a tempest where trust disintegrates into whispers.

Conversations become carnival acts,

the jester grinning with eyes like coals,

words become brittle and break like glass,

fractured reflections of what once was whole,

I seek the anchor in the tumultuous sea,

but the ship sways on an unsteady tide.

In the drawing room of the mind,

faint shadows gather to play their parts,

an audience without a show, only fits of laughter,

where sanity tiptoes delicately on a tightrope,

tracing the outlines of what could be real—

this spectrum of thoughts, a prism refracting reality.

Yet amongst the dance of disorder,

the light filters through cracks in the pattern,

glimmers of insight, nuggets of clarity,

moments of lucidity that pierce the veil,

when I stand firm, no longer swaying,

lonely voices become softer, yielding.

To the symphony of clarity’s embrace.

And the everyday, mundane, and vibrant,

simmer like a pot left too long on the stove,

the small moments beam like freshly polished

glass the smile of a stranger in need, the

warmth of sunlight weaving through the trees,

a gentle rain tapping a rhythmic refrain,

the world outside beckons, desires to connect,

but the bridge is wrought with invisible chains.

I remember stillness folded within chaos,

the mindful heartbeat of the present momen—

awareness unfurling like petals to the sun,

breath, a tide that sweeps away the clutter,

the butterscotch taste of hot tea held close.

In those moments, I build from fragments,

brick by brick, this fortress of knowing,

how beautiful it is, to feel the grain of wood,

to hear my voice resonating against the void.

But there are times when sanctuary flees,

a season cloaked in isolation’s embrace,

the stranglehold of despair pooling like storm

clouds, when even laughter feels like a distant

shore, the abyss of loneliness yawns wide,

and in that chasm, I seek to find meaning in the

chaos, peace in the noise, the embrace of

understanding where certainty breaks.

Through these shifting winds, companionship

rises, like handles on rickety doors, where

understanding thrives amidst confusion, the

courage to speak, always a fragile thing, like

bird’s wings, trembling yet persistent, those

who listen, who see not only the chaos, they

help to pry the chasms of silence open, a way

back to the warmth of connection.

Friend, be the beacon in this turbulent sea,

let patience swell like a rising tide,

and I shall grasp your hand in dark waters.

For even the fractured mind yearns for kinship,

for voices to soothe the simmering storm.

And amidst this intricate tapestry threads of

empathy weave through the fabric of being, for

whom among us is not sometimes lost, a

traveller navigating the imperfect terrain, at the

edges of madness and sanity, shared stories

bridge the chasm of solitude, resonating

reminders of our collective human dance.

Oh, the beauty of shared vulnerability,

of stepping into the flame and emerging ane—

in the stories we tell, the laughter we share,

the tears that fall, nourishing dreams parche—

in sickness, a tapestry of resilience stitched,

in health, a reminder that none walk alone.

So here I am, at the crossroads,

with all its sorrows, all its glories,

a wildflower blooming amidst the cracks,

standing tall despite the tempests it weathered,

and within this tension lies my heartbeat,

a world perpetually striving to belong,

a dance of shadows and light unfurling,

inviting each of us to witness—

the exquisite fragility of life itself.

For in the dawn that breaks through the stillness,

in the layers of existence that intertwine,

in the fragile embrace of each moment shared,

there lurks an undeniable truth—

that within this mind, at times chaotic and fractured,

lies an infinite landscape yearning to be seen,

a testament to the human spirit, relentless and bold,

in the dance of schizophrenia, my story unfolds.

[satinmoon70]

Whispers of the mind: Anxiety disorder

In the quiet hours of the night,

when shadows stretch and silence hums,

an unease tiptoes through the corridors,

a soft whisper in the dark,

uninvited guest, wearing the mask of dread.

It begins like a gentle breeze,

a mere flutter in the chest,

a thought catching like a leaf in autumn,

rustling against the walls of reason,

imbuing the air with an insatiable tension.

What if…?

The question dances in a loop,

an echo in the vast chambers of the mind,

what if the world is a stage,

and I am nothing but a spectator,

watching the plot twist,

watching the cast play their parts?

Each tick of the clock,

a reminder of expectations unmet,

of dreams that flutter like moths in sunlight,

always reaching but forever out of grasp.

The thread of what could be,

fraying in the hands of what is.

Breathe in, breathe out,

they say, wisdom wrapped in simplicity,

yet such profundity escapes,

as spirals of uncertainty unfurl,

wrapping tight around the very essence of being,

squeezing till the colour fades from view,

till the thoughts swirl like autumn leaves,

caught in a restless wind.

The mind constructs castles in the air,

where every brick is laid on the foundation of worry,

with turrets rising from the bedrock of fear,

walls fortified by past experiences,

but what about the invitations to failure,

the unwelcoming signs on approaches unloved,

warning of disappointments glittering in the periphery?

Anxiety holds court, a silent monarch,

over the kingdom of possibilities.

It shapes and reshapes aspirations,

and I, a jester in its realm,

juggle what-ifs and maybes,

internally fractured, yet visibly whole,

each word a tightrope,

each step a gamble.

A smile on the face—

a façade of calm beneath which chaos brews,

the heart races, a wild stallion,

knocking against the stable of ribs,

constricted by the iron bars of self-doubt,

a storm simmering beneath the surface,

with every laugh a tremor,

with every glance a tremble.

Where do I belong in this tapestry of existence?

each thread—

a connection, a possibility,

yet I find myself woven into the fabric of isolation,

a patch set aside,

for fear clings like a second skin,

the itch of insecurities rising like smoke,

blurring the colours of joy and sorrow.

The paradox of presence –

to be here, yet feel so displaced,

to walk among the living with ghosts trailing,

filling the air with whispers of inadequacy,

reminders that linger like a persistent shadow,

never straying too far,

always poised to remind me

of breath held too long,

of words left unspoken.

Sometimes the world feels

like a hall of mirrors.

reflections bending back looping thoughts,

and I am trapped in a maze with no way out,

tangled in my own perceptions—

Is it me? Is it them?

Are the walls trembling, or is it just me,

the quiver of the fragile frame,

the shake of a hand,

as I reach for clarity, young and determined,

but grasp only air instead.

“Take it one day at a time,” they say,

but in the cacophony of endless loops,

what does one day mean?

Is it the dawn that brushes the sky,

or the midnight hour’s chimes,

the blend of moments—

yesterday’s shadows haunting today’s light?

With each rise of the sun, hope flickers weakly,

a candle flame in a breeze.

Nursed tenderly yet at times—

nearly encompassed by fear’s grasp.

And I chase after it,

in the gardens of thought,

watching roots of despair coil themselves,

around the tender shoots of aspirations,

constricting until the blossoms almost wilt.

Yet in the grip of anxiety, there’s resilience,

a light intricately woven into the fabric,

a truth waiting to surface amidst the fear,

to untangle the knots that clench and fold,

and to raise a voice that quakes but does not falter,

to say that I am here,

not a whisper but a bold declaration,

a truth said out loud against the children of doubt.

Anxiety feels like an avalanche—

thousands of tiny pebbles tumble down,

always heading in one direction,

merciless and relentless against the mind’s quiet hills,

and yet, can it not be gentle?

Can it not be the rain washing over the ruins,

nurturing growth through the cracks,

there exists beauty in chaos.

As I breathe, I feel the threads uncoil,

the stitches of worry begin to fray loose.

Let them flutter away like the petals of spring,

see them dance in the sunlight,

and underfoot, feel the melting frost,

the warmth seeping into the ground,

into the cracks where life waits,

delicate as a newly sprouted leaf.

Rest is granted only between sips of calm,

between pauses in the race of thoughts,

between resumes of life’s orchestra,

where I learn to sway with the rhythm,

to find the notes in chaos,

to breathe through the storm,

to gather the remnants and stitch them back together.

Connections arise through whispers,

from the voices of those unafraid to share,

their own tales of struggle and survival,

showing that within the disorder,

we are not alone.

And in the heart of vulnerability likes unity,

a tapestry rich with stories,

woven from the threads of understanding.

Support emerges in shared spaces,

where judgment falls away,

leaving only kindness,

where hands reach out to hold,

to lift, to help each other rise,

weaving a network of warmth,

and, in those moments, the echo of anxiety softens,

the tremors become a rhythm,

and within the pulse lies hope.

Anxiety is not the absence of courage.

Rather, it is the embodiment of the struggle,

a song sung in fragmented notes,

brimming with the longing for peace,

with every beat—a pulse of resilience,

reminding me that to feel is to be alive,

and within that truth, I inch forward,

footsteps awkward yet determined,

climbing the mountains of possibilities behind the clouded skies.

So, let the winds wail their mournful tune,

let the shadows stretch long into the evening,

for I will rise with the dawn,

with every hesitation, every breath held,

and I will learn to dance with the tempest,

to embrace the moments of stillness,

to find the light breaking through the weight of anxiety,

a dawn that paints the world anew.

And with each sunrise, I will craft my narrative—

not of limitations, but of endurance,

one word at a time, one breath at a time,

until I become my own safe harbour,

navigating the waves of my thoughts

in a vessel, sturdy as hope,

ready to journey through the seas,

where anxiety no longer defines,

but merely exists as a part of the whole.