Stream of consciousness

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My brain is melting. Melting and melting and it never stops. It runs down my face and over my hands as I type. Grey and pink intermingling, running together until neither stands out. It collects dust, this mass. This liquid, it grows less and less pure. Occasionally, the silver of my fingernails peeks out, only to retreat again. I lean my face back, and it slides over my shoulders and down my back as well. Drips upon the floor. Seeps into the mess, into the clothing and the carpets and the boxes of things yet to be sorted. Lost to time, set aside and forgotten until needed. Candles, and pencils, and a little wooden stand for post-it notes. More clothing. Things I've not worn in ages. Things I'm not entirely certain still fit. There's a baby's bottle cleaner I kept for cleaning my teapot, back before my doctor told me to all but cut off from drinking tea. It sits upon the tea set items my grandmother left me when she died, though she already knew I wasn't going to be allowed to make use of them anymore. I should sell them. I need the money. But I really want to keep these things, too. The candles are safely boxed. No brain melts on them. I can still use them when the power goes out, to keep the shadows away from my niece. From my sister. Both terrified of the nothingness they see. I don't use the candles to burn out the nothing. I stare at the flames until nothing is all I can see. Music and fire embrace my soul, swirling and swirling. The swirling wraps my brain up again, ties it into my skull for a little while longer. I should set another fire. I want to burn the trees, the houses, the businesses, but I won't... I have my candles. Mom bought a fire pit on sale some time back, and we found a place which throws away small wood chunks and compressed paper. It burns beautifully. I want to watch it alone sometimes, but it's not mine. Not really. It's a family event. The candles are pretty, but just not the same. It burns me to wait. I smolder. I fall apart. I turn to distractions. Water for touch. Music for soul. Wandering without aim, to bind me in myself. Keep me whole. Nothing tastes good anymore. I eat and I eat, but it doesn't go anywhere. It doesn't fix me. Not like the fires do. I should draw again. I could draw the burning, and somehow it kept it from me for a time. Blues and reds and blacks, purples and greens. Water and fire and growth, surrounding me. Surrounding the parts of me, the demons everyone adores only because they see them only on paper. Those shadows eat me alive. They chain me down and take over. I learn more and more to hate everything. Everybody. Small exceptions. I cling to those exceptions. So long as there's one person, just the one... I can't burn that away. Can't risk it. Sometimes I have to force myself to remember that. Humanity is terrible, but some individuals are worthwhile. Just a few. Not many. I could probably fit most of them in my tiny room. Well, not really. Not unless I moved out my junk. This mess. My mind, all seeped in to the corners and underneath. Scattered everywhere. Worth nothing. Not worth a cent more than the demons.