Riddled Prose

In a fit of stuffy headed confusion she remembers. A vague moment of clarity taunts and torments her from its lost lonely and forgotten place on the line of time. The farther you get from the light, the darker it becomes. Seems so obvious now. It always does on this side. Sleep is either elusive or overpowering. Always one or the other. Always the extreme. She shudders to think she could ever crave normalcy. Balance just wasn’t in the cards for her she supposes. How far down the rabbit hole can she go? How deep can she dive before.....

Utter madness takes hold.

There is a point called no return and she has kissed and flirted with it for far too long. Perhaps she doesn’t want to crucify her memories. Perhaps they are what remind her that she is alive. She wonders why she would want to remember sometimes anyways. To remember is to be there again I suppose, but the trip back to reality is always a rough one. She leaves a part of her there every time she visits too. How long before the parts are so scattered that the existence of the whole is compromised? How many more pieces does she have left to leave with yesterday?
The point. Such an elusive little bastard, eh? Is it simply the point to just live until we die? Will she live forever in her riddled prose? It's the only brand of eternal life that isn’t poison. She revels in the sheer insanity of it all. It is, after all, all insanity. Even if it appears to make sense, she has found, it is mere happenstance. There is no such thing as sanity, only the illusion of it. We are all on the brink all the time. Every last one of us are standing at the edge of the cliff peering over into the darkness. Some of us stand closer than others, but we are all close enough. A strong enough breeze could push us all over the edge, arms flailing, mouths wide open screaming "Why?" the whole way down. Will we all fall forever?