The undoing

I dreamt of spending the midwinter, in an alcove by the silent meadow... Some place that remained an inaccessible virgin to the cloying chatoyment of popular custom. Perhaps there was something more to my lethargy, that exceeded the adequate distaste for the extemporized inventories of converse, that had become the rite of socialization. It is not that, I had become morbidly misanthropic, or perhaps made putrid by my own rancor, it is rather that, I had become sensitive. Yes it is something of that sort. All the echoes abound the earth, made me ill and wizened, much like the simultaneous cowing of a murder, in the dirge for a forlorn corpse. My therapist, he told me it was anxiety, but I only graduated into the escalating ascent of a neurotic dysphoria, an intrusive hysteria, dear lord a madness of no measurable criteria. I walked the street, with an eye over my shoulder,

I could not sleep, nor could I ensconce in comfortable leisure,

For my days, and nights were ridden with insufferable displeasure,

The vitality of the throbbing world, vexed me beyond measure, and corrupted like a malignant cancer.

During this time, I had met more often with my therapist, and still, he remained nonchalant. Could he not understand, that I was weary of the population, and desired a retreat, in some forgotten womb of the earth. He only crossed his legs and thudded his canary pencil upon his book, utterly remiss of my frothing, wrought, condition. I bit my fist, and paced the precinct, as I murmured,

"It is not anxiety, something is wrong" and at length I paced to the lounging man presently on his wooden chair, but there was a terror in my heart, a cold strum of the nerve, for his head now reclined, so as to regard the vacant ceiling. I heard him speak, with subdued, elongated syllables,

"What have you done Jonathan" and as I strode into his proximity, I found that the narrow shaft of the pencil had been lodged into his eye socket, from which he bled profusely.