Madness is all gray, rainy nights; unspoken words and open
wounds. It is driving with no seat belt and aiming for the concrete barrier in
the middle of the road. It is imagining jumping from the rooftop of the
building facing Roxas Boulevard – eyes closed or looking at the last sunset?
Madness is silent afternoons in the balcony of an empty
house, smoking one cigarette after another. It is counting the hours until the
beloved comes, only to hate him with so much love or to love him with so much
hate. It is fighting until every bone hurts and making love until all the pain
is gone.
Madness comes in the least expected moments, in the most lucid of times; in the dead of night, when the moon is a sliver or round like a ball. Or in the happiest waking hours, when the roosters are crowing and the smell of freshly brewed coffee is wafting in the air.
Madness is a thousand little voices screaming in the head. It is a flashback of images of ripping pain, from mama’s bed to white sand beaches. It is breaking down when memories collide and feigning smiles for interviews.
It is what it is. No rhyme or reason. Just because.
Photo by Jes Aznar
