Being and Anxiety; Existential Madness

He looked out the window. He had grown weary, but did not feel like going to sleep. Somewhere in the distance he thought he could hear a sound. Perhaps he only fancied he heard it. It was not a sound of the physical world, but some calling from the void of some metaphysical plane. Was it a cry, it made him feel sad and apprehensive. He wondered if the abyss was looking back into him, and the sound was nothing more than an echo of himself; rebounding from a time long ago, or a time yet to come. A screaming and a scraping of himself across the infinities of an eternal moment hidden from his memory. Perhaps it was the apprehension and anxiety of existence. It was the pain and thrill of the uncertainty of life, the exhilaration and fear of death; brewing altogether in a tea kettle locked inside a pressure cooker. He waited to explode but the pressure was ever present and ephemeral, it was solid as marble but as empty as a delusion. It was all nightmares conjured by sleeping dreams. He wasn’t even sure if he was the dreamer, nor was he sure from whence came that the sound within the great chasm. Nor was he sure there was a sound or a chasm, but he could sense them all the same.
He stood upon the border of madness. Inside he felt a cracking and gnawing of fictitious teeth.  It was a sphere of nothingness that lived within, and despite, the presence of the matter of his heart. It rendered in apathy absently tearing asunder the spark of his being with fervent ferocity. It was a contradiction. He was a contradiction. Existence was a contradiction. Nothingness could have never existed, but nothingness had taken-up its residence within him uncaring that it was forever banished from being.

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