The message of a madman

The endless sea, broken into small drops, pours over my face. I feel every drop enveloping me like a gentle ghost, plunging into my madness. My thoughts are a bizarre dance of whirlwinds that never subside. I chose a park inside the bustle of the city to hide from the sharp patterns of reality disguised in a world of trees and sand. The smells of rain and denial fill the air, and I become myself again, at least for a moment. When the falling water runs down my cheeks, I dive into my mind and start building castles out of shadows that flutter before my eyes. The dark towers rise higher and higher, and under the blue dome of the sky they look promising, but unattainable. I look at them with longing, realizing that they exist only in the prophetic dreams of one madman. A lonely gardener, being a child's game of lies, lives in a corner of my soul. It is he who creates these forgotten atmospheric gardens in my torn mind. He tries to grow flowers, but none of them opens up to the end. They turn into fallen leaves, a sign of linguistic grief. I look at this garden growing in the shackles of my madness, and I realize that its beauty is an illusion. Because the garden lies on the ground from the fragments of my destroyed world. The moon shines with a bright light, like the personification of my painful memory. She extinguishes the stars so that all her attention is focused on my mind. I know that she is watching me, watching my every move, every disordered mental experience. Her light penetrates through the darkness, right into the very depths of my existence, sucking the remnants of hope out of me. Floating in a carousel-music of sounds, I listen to a sad melody, and it becomes like a dreary wind that penetrates to the very bones. I get into a panic, trembling from unknown fears. My poor soul groans under the onslaught of these invisible voices that whisper dark secrets to me that I cannot deny. The atmosphere is filled with bitterness, desired as the last contact with reality.