[Orig] I'm Just A Simple MADNESS Man
Icon = exactly my thought. This is what happens when the need to write a short story meets B-T. The concept of it is the many voices and all--in short: me. I have no idea how or why I used lines from the song and put it here.
And uh, I fell asleep in the middle of writing this, like what usually happens while writing late in the night back in Stockholm days. I just nodded off and fell asleep. Then when I snapped back to consciousness, fully alert and awake, I saw one of the strangest things my unconscious ever decided to share with me.
It wasn't as weird as that thing about Ms. Espino and teacakes though, so I guess this is still okay.
I'm Just A Simple MADNESS Man
He stared at the large sketchpad on his desk. A desk lamp stood at the edge of the table, casting yellow light good enough for his eyes. A full well of ink sat next to the blank sketchpad, untouched for the past three hours.
His lips twisted in frustration. Not a thought entered his mind. Only voices-spectral voices drifting in and out, whispering and screaming until he couldn’t differentiate one from the other.
“Is this what you wanted?” one of the voice rasped angrily. He scratched his head, right hand toying with the body of his old calligraphy pen. Heaven knows why he insisted on using calligraphy for this.
“Are you honest?” another voice asked, gasping each word with a dying breath. It kept repeating itself again and again until he waved his hand next to his ear, shooing the voice away. What was he supposed to say?
Something groaned above him, but he ignored the urge to look up. He had something else much more important to tend to-like this. The sketchpad remained empty, and it wasn’t going to fill itself up with something pretty or pleasing.
“I wanna be like a dog!” a shrill voice screeched behind him. “Let us all be dogs!”
He bit his bottom lip, and he frowned when he realized the paper in front of him wasn’t blank anymore. The nib of his pen was dripping with ink, creating a large black spot on the edge of the page. His eyes narrowed, a great annoyance welling up inside of him at the sight of what he had apparently just made.
“Dogs! Let us all be dogs!”
A large print of the word ‘dog’ was all over the paper, the curve of the g’s tail beyond the paper. His otherwise clean desk had an ugly curve line in the middle of it, and the more he stare at it and ask himself if this was truly happening, the more his shirt would be stained black with ink as well.
He ripped the page off the pad, crumpling it into a ball before throwing it into the trashcan. Dipping the pen in the ink well, he began to think of something else to say, something that will actually make sense.
“Razmatazz! Razzmatazz!”
The voice kept on screaming and screeching, howling like a mad dog. With this rate of insanity, he’d never be able to put a single word of endearment into this love letter.
When the light from his desk lamp suddenly flickered, the very thin, frayed strand of patience in him snapped, and away with it his sanity went. His mind whirled into nothingness as his hand flew all over the table, the nib of the pen scratching loudly against paper, black ink painting it a beautiful yet macabre message of love straight from his pounding heart. Only when his mind stirred back into the conscious world did he feel what had happened. His heart was still ramming itself against his ribcage, wanting to free itself from its stifling cage.
Then he looked down and stared at his newest creation. All over the paper, words lay on top of each other, curls and dots and lines overlapping until nothing else made sense.
It was terrible, so terrible it propelled him off his seat, his hands ripping it off the pad with more rage than before. “Throw it away! Throw it away!” the voice above him screeched, and he supposed he would have since that was what he had in mind. But the stubborn side in him sparked to life, taking hold immediately just for the sake of annoying the voices with its rebelliousness.
He stared long and hard at the creation of his unconscious mind. Terrible, it still was, and he honestly didn’t know what he was doing. Humouring his other self, yes. Wasting time, maybe. Nothing else but those though, he realized.
For another glorious minute, he stared at the pathetic excuse of an art on hand.
“Take it! Take it!”
The voice above him was screeching again, and it took every bit of his willpower not to throw anything at it. Then finally, like a switch being flicked on, his eyes widened in surprise and awe. Right there, on the very paper stained with black ink, the non-existent love letter turned massacred, abstract calligraphy painting displayed the very wish in him that kept pushing and prodding against his mental defences.
“Please take this love letter. I’m just a simple MADNESS man.”
And uh, I fell asleep in the middle of writing this, like what usually happens while writing late in the night back in Stockholm days. I just nodded off and fell asleep. Then when I snapped back to consciousness, fully alert and awake, I saw one of the strangest things my unconscious ever decided to share with me.
It wasn't as weird as that thing about Ms. Espino and teacakes though, so I guess this is still okay.
I'm Just A Simple MADNESS Man
He stared at the large sketchpad on his desk. A desk lamp stood at the edge of the table, casting yellow light good enough for his eyes. A full well of ink sat next to the blank sketchpad, untouched for the past three hours.
His lips twisted in frustration. Not a thought entered his mind. Only voices-spectral voices drifting in and out, whispering and screaming until he couldn’t differentiate one from the other.
“Is this what you wanted?” one of the voice rasped angrily. He scratched his head, right hand toying with the body of his old calligraphy pen. Heaven knows why he insisted on using calligraphy for this.
“Are you honest?” another voice asked, gasping each word with a dying breath. It kept repeating itself again and again until he waved his hand next to his ear, shooing the voice away. What was he supposed to say?
Something groaned above him, but he ignored the urge to look up. He had something else much more important to tend to-like this. The sketchpad remained empty, and it wasn’t going to fill itself up with something pretty or pleasing.
“I wanna be like a dog!” a shrill voice screeched behind him. “Let us all be dogs!”
He bit his bottom lip, and he frowned when he realized the paper in front of him wasn’t blank anymore. The nib of his pen was dripping with ink, creating a large black spot on the edge of the page. His eyes narrowed, a great annoyance welling up inside of him at the sight of what he had apparently just made.
“Dogs! Let us all be dogs!”
A large print of the word ‘dog’ was all over the paper, the curve of the g’s tail beyond the paper. His otherwise clean desk had an ugly curve line in the middle of it, and the more he stare at it and ask himself if this was truly happening, the more his shirt would be stained black with ink as well.
He ripped the page off the pad, crumpling it into a ball before throwing it into the trashcan. Dipping the pen in the ink well, he began to think of something else to say, something that will actually make sense.
“Razmatazz! Razzmatazz!”
The voice kept on screaming and screeching, howling like a mad dog. With this rate of insanity, he’d never be able to put a single word of endearment into this love letter.
When the light from his desk lamp suddenly flickered, the very thin, frayed strand of patience in him snapped, and away with it his sanity went. His mind whirled into nothingness as his hand flew all over the table, the nib of the pen scratching loudly against paper, black ink painting it a beautiful yet macabre message of love straight from his pounding heart. Only when his mind stirred back into the conscious world did he feel what had happened. His heart was still ramming itself against his ribcage, wanting to free itself from its stifling cage.
Then he looked down and stared at his newest creation. All over the paper, words lay on top of each other, curls and dots and lines overlapping until nothing else made sense.
It was terrible, so terrible it propelled him off his seat, his hands ripping it off the pad with more rage than before. “Throw it away! Throw it away!” the voice above him screeched, and he supposed he would have since that was what he had in mind. But the stubborn side in him sparked to life, taking hold immediately just for the sake of annoying the voices with its rebelliousness.
He stared long and hard at the creation of his unconscious mind. Terrible, it still was, and he honestly didn’t know what he was doing. Humouring his other self, yes. Wasting time, maybe. Nothing else but those though, he realized.
For another glorious minute, he stared at the pathetic excuse of an art on hand.
“Take it! Take it!”
The voice above him was screeching again, and it took every bit of his willpower not to throw anything at it. Then finally, like a switch being flicked on, his eyes widened in surprise and awe. Right there, on the very paper stained with black ink, the non-existent love letter turned massacred, abstract calligraphy painting displayed the very wish in him that kept pushing and prodding against his mental defences.
“Please take this love letter. I’m just a simple MADNESS man.”