copyright 2004, Geza Decsy

madness of a god on earth (a writer’s tear)

It is the world beneath my skin that I try to explore. 

It is the blood of my life. It is the thing that drives me.

To see what you cannot see. 

To see that which is not yet in existence. 

It is the world that I may deny, but can never escape. 

It is a world that is so far beyond the scope of my understanding that I can never hope to understand it. 

Yet I search for the answer.  I search for the  reason to keep on going. 

I cannot fathom that there is a reason good enough, and yet I keep on looking. 

Keep on looking day by day into the winds of time for that which I can only hallucinate in a fever dream.

That which comes to me in moments, nay, fits of unconscious pain; in random, sporadic moments of  drunken fate.

It is that which I must tell you about. 

That which I must conjure and discover to be the truth of my life. 

It is that which haunts me to my end. 

That which will prove inevitably to be the end of me. 

Why must I die to find the answers to this dilemma. 

Why must I be the one to collect these sumptuous morsels of pain to showcase to the world. 

Why must I be the one to write.  To be. To become.

So it continues.  So it goes on. 

And I cannot stop that which must go on in relentless fashion without my consent. 

It is my own personal psychosis.  My own personal hell.  My heaven and my salvation. Or slavery. 

You decide.  No, I decide.  Or hope to.

It is a world of many faces, of many hates and many fates. 

And I can only hope to become one of those who goes on in the memories of many. 

The mortal minds of those who live out their lives not knowing that they themselves

are but a piece of the puzzle that god herself can’t solve because she has created a world and a puzzle

that lives on its own and has a path all unto itself.

This I see as the path.  This I see as the end. 

This is what I must tell you before I go and before I find that which I am due to find. 

Due to find not in the sense that I am owed, but in the sense that I must find that which was to be my own. 

Find that which is a part of me and a central part of my soul.

Why is it that this world I speak of is not available to me at a moment’s notice. 

Why not.  Why must I suffer to see you.

You are so close yet so far and I suffer yet to see you. As if I were a blind man. 

As if I were unconsciously ignoring you yet loving you at the same time.  

I must promise to see you to love you to be you.

You must promise to find me.  I am lost.

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