I’m not sure what part of me is writing this. The normal, sane, showing my face to the public persona type: or one of the multiple internal psychopath types. But let’s be honest, does it matter. Deep down I don’t think it does, what matters is that it gets written. A spectrum is told and people see the various lights shining from the prism and take one of those lights. It doesn’t matter what they do with the light as long as they see it. They don’t even have to take one of the lights; they just have to see it.

So here is the prism. The rage is something that grows inside you, at times it subsides but it never dies. It can’t die, why? Because it’s incapable of dying. It can only subside and remain calm until the moon becomes full, the waves get higher and the beauty enrages its spirit for one more explosion. The explosion metamorphoses into yellow love. Its shines burn out and then the waves relapse into a cold smoulder. Cool blue souls shatter into the infinite rage that sleeps, dormant until the man will awaken and rebirth him, breathe wilderness into the rage’s spirit and enliven the frosty blue. Mildew moistens the frost, creating the green alga which habitats the prism, breeding the stillborn foetus until the waves rise for the final triumphant rage.

Coldness warms incapable death; towering above and beyond the deadness of aborted love. Euphoria emblazons the emerging soul that has bred inside the burnt out shines, re-living the life of a corpse thrice-fold. Dead heartbeats resound, fusing the multiple layers of white sensation. The beauty within this effigy speaks volumes of the true lives that are burning alive for their final coda.

The rebirth of sanity is my slit-throat faith that passes me through the stillness of my soul and lacerates my voice. The prism holds me and radiates the last attempt of frail veracity that the deep swallowed whole. Thrice the corpses walked, and thrice the truth was told. The prism afflicts its tendons to the dance of animate integrity, assembling the rainbow dream. And thus the prism is born, the lights shining; burning the deeps’ waves.