I'm numb, baby

‘If consciousness can be compared to a searchlight beam, we might all say that manic consciousness tends to pivot rapidly as it shifts focus from one object to another, whereas schizophrenic consciousness actually slips out of any anchor point, floating about unstably among vary points of view.’
--Unknown Author




“I feel so numb, so numb. I almost feel sentimental. No you don’t understand.” Charles said, seeking nothing but the unknown feeling to be conveyed in some way, in some how.
“I know what you are thinking, at least man. And I know that schizoid personality disorder is being eliminated from the DSM IV. Not a bad decision considering that the schizoid personality does not always denote a pre-morbid state into schizophrenia. Man, I’m with you, dude.” Big Joe said in comparison to his usual inward thinking strategies, when he himself became schizophrenic, but just for the voluntary instance. That is, when approaching that “dreadful chamber of hell”, he called, well, Danville State Psychiatric Hospital.
He walked in to talk to his friend, who was all wrapped up in thinking about himself. Poor Charles didn’t know why his friend was coming to see him; man, was he disturbed; man was he enlightened. But Big Joe was here anyway. Thankfully, being a friend, a confidant—yeah, like the Golden Girls song. Blanch was ringing the bells and Dorothy was playing clarinet.
“Hey man, can you go out side?” He asked in pleasant urgency.
“I guess so, I have to get a pass. I’ve been pretty good lately. Been up to my heals in working with people. You know, trying to make them feel as though they have a right to speak to the world in an unworldly fashion. Make sense of themselves, instead of fools.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the steel pipe next to him. The place, however, was not all steel piped. It was glorious as it was built, glorious. The place had beautiful towers and beautiful fountains, and great windows to see out into the world. But it never had the sense of caring. Back in the early 1900’s they were still building mental asylums as though they were beautiful castles of light. That they were the place to go if you were in a savage struggle against the world, and the place, yes, the place itself was to take you out of this world of hell. It was to deliver you from evil and set you on your two feet. It was supposed to be Heaven. But instead, inside, it smelled like a barnyard. A disgusting pig-pen of mud and shit. And the patients used to roll around in their own piss and feces. Reality was the worst horror.

Eventually Charles came back with a pass. Thank goodness. Big Joe could get out of this mess. It was killing him.
“Well?” Big Joe asked.
“Well, what? I’m cool dude. I’m as fine as when we were two years ago, drinking at the parties. Doing DXM. Holding our stamps in our hands. Kissing and touching and yeah, fucking those hot chicks. Now you’re are what, married or some shit? You should be ashamed of yourself, those golden monkeys have no place on your aluminum shelf of distress. They don’t make any sense on the language filter you’ve used with me. The band of silent frogs of remorse. You know. the ones who understood ‘Kiss of the Spider Woman.’ Yeah you know. All them faggots and shit. That is real, man, that is real.”
“I know, dude, I know.”
“You do, huh? How come that stupid grin comes over your face when I talk about inward material? You probably don’t have any idea what it is really like, right? You should never. This place is hell. Check out the boogie man behind you!” Charles proclaimed to the earthly walls.
“What the fuck, who are you!”
“Oh, dude, that’s Brett, he’s a sociopath, he won’t hurt you. I mean , damn the kid went nuts when he was eighteen. So did I, but never so severe—that is, if that is possible.”
“Hey, man!” Brett announced his presence.
“Hey.” Charles said. “We are about to go outside man.”
“Really, that’s cool.”
“Later, we have to go.”
And so, Charles grabbed big Joe by the arm, who was mesmerized by the guy that he saw, somewhat similar to himself when he was younger. But now at twenty six, those days had passed. It was a bit traumatic. Made him numb as though he never wanted to see that—in real life, not a movie. But real life, where the personal savior came to play as though they governed all. As though the spirit holding them all together came to him a flash. He felt them. He knew them. He walked the halls with them, smelling shit, tasting urine, but did not care. This was his time to feel them. To feel nothing. To realize that Madness was but a fork in a salad. A gem in the brimstone. A lie among truth of fiction’s warm embrace. The sun without the son of man. Everything, the boy felt for him now.
Charles had to drag him outside, as though he was trying to be welcomed to the motel.
“Hey man, what do you feel now?”
“I don’t know; I just kind of feel….well, nothing at all,” Big Joe said, examining his growing gut.