FUGUES

In the trappings of a mystic he revealed himself, muttering pseudometaphysical revelations. He was possessed with an assortment of obsessive nervous habits; constantly grasping his hands together until his knuckles were white, or smoothing his hair out every time he said something he appeared to find disturbing…

His was a picture of continuous nervous motion. He was torn between a multitude of enormously tangled, profound emotions…

His facades were Jekyll-Hyde eclectic; as he would always dress himself in either of two respective, diverse personas.

Often, he would present himself in restricted composure; choosing his words with slow, generous care in order to contradict the undercurrent of fear and personal self-doubt that lay just below the surface. He would not, and absolutely could not, allow himself to be seen as defenseless as he felt. There were many jackals lurking in the shadows.

An instantaneous silence, foreboding in its approach, swept mercilessly through his thoughts. Its maddening encroachment swam through his reverie, assaulting every sacred bit of reason it encountered.

“It’s too late to fight it,” he thought fearfully to himself, terror building with each fleeting thought.

“Fighting what?” the soulless demon-void retorted.

Vile contradictions flung themselves across and around every precious bit of logic he fought to retain. Paradoxes cruelly found their way into every corner of his mind demanding absolute resolution. Metaphysical concepts jumped up and demanded to be proven to the status of tangible truth. Faith and Fact accosted one another across the tortured trails of his consciousness. Ironies sneered at him as they flew past, unraveling even more twisted mysteries in their wake. Would this storm ever quell?

Across and about, within and without, these ineffable concepts rocked and wrested in his head; building to a fever pitch, unrelenting.

Until…the undulating bombast ceased.

And all his windswept notions settled; as leaves –

softly falling to the ground.