TY
Sanity is a fool’s delusion of freedom, a belief that being of sound mind equates to autonomy. When, in reality, sanity is a frayed wire—taut and tattered and strung too tight. We’re all creeping along it, hoping that when it severs, we’ll manage to hang on rather than nosediving to our demise. Or getting strangled by it, like a noose.
No? Maybe that’s just me.
Either way, correlation between these two fragile concepts is a pointless conquest because they are naturally at odds. Holding on is imperative to keeping our wits about us while breaking chains is our vision of deliverance.
There might be a middle ground, but I haven’t found it. I’m a prisoner to the grip of thinning threads, always wondering if I should just let go.
Sanity should be leather. Or concrete. Strong. Robust. Tough to break.
It probably is for some people.
Like that guy cracking a whip at the girl in the cage. He looks rock solid. And she seems pretty excited to be his captive. Imprisoned but liberated. It works.
Or her wire is as tattered as mine. Maybe his too. Anybody’s guess.
What one person touts as freedom, another wears as manacles.
To be clear, I’m in the voyeur hall. It’s not like I’m just watching. Well, it’s exactly like I’m watching.
But I’m supposed to be.
Breezing on past them, I work my way through Magie Noire, weaving in and out and around half-naked women with collars and garters and 1920s feathers, alongside drooling men, who are flaunting their salacious intentions with money and luxuries and overpriced scotch.
A taste of Prohibition. Like the black-and-white photographs lining the walls, commemorating a time period when everyone banded together, affronted by an absurd rule.
Something about that is appealing.
To sayfuck it. And live. To jump all the way over the fence.
I’m always straddling that proverbial barrier—the one dividing good and evil or some shade of it.
It’s a wide stance. One foot planted firmly on the side that shoots to kill without a second thought. And the toes of the other dipping into the side trying to live by some fucked-up code of moral conduct.
What a twisted philosophy.
A cackle rips from my chest, drawing the attention of a small group to my left. Three ladies encircle a man in a suit. One is in fishnet stockings and a flapper dress, another sports a dominatrix getup, and the last dons a cherry wig. I kick up my chin to the guy in reverence before knocking back another Kraken Spiced Rum and Coke.
Gesturing to the bartender, I mouthAnother, so he exchanges a full drink for my empty glass.
What I need is to smash the code-of-fucked-up-morals fenceand celebrate the crumbling with someone straddlingme. That’s the plan—grab some masked woman in here and let her mount me.
Backward.
No faces. No names. No talking.
That’s the only way.
Unfortunately, my phone trills in my pocket. I’m late. I’m never late.
But when the wire frays, it takes a bit longer to tightrope across it.
I stare at the screen. Wells. I knew it was him, but it still pisses me off because he’ll demand that I join him upstairs.
And I’m having a fucking moment.
“Yeah?” I answer in a clipped tone.
