Yang alone

Pavlovian channels, ever reticent to relinquish their prerogative, reinforced by spectators, unhappily, unconsciously, adding depth and grade, doom those within.

But, upon reflection, the barrier protects and insulates, entangles and promotes in equal measure. 

Desperately testing every spectrum, frequency and mixture for some small progress, and yet resigned, barely registering the identical results. Action, inaction, gentle murmur, sharp disabuse. Reaction and indifference likewise loathed. "Too much, tone down, calmer, nicer" the tearful cries. Met at counterpoints by "have an opinion, react, input, move!" equally recriminating with downcast eyes. 

Thread and thumbtack, protruding from soft wax prove more binding than shackles and concrete. The pachyderm, though once stout warrior, now restrained by lightest tug. Within the pen, the bronco tamer looses interest in the gentle pony, while, without,  spirited gallop offends genteel sensibilities.

Surely the greater wedge from reality is when madness sees itself as mad, and can do nothing to remedy. The sweet, blissful indulgence of unaware blithering, one reminisces. The voices, the light, the hefalumps and woozles. Alas, a gorge, the other side normalcy, as sole companion. No prescription, no couch, no asylum. 

The sharpest blow, repeatedly added to every consequence, comes from the pauper.  Previously, even still, begging for compassion, understanding, grace. Now finding fault in every glance, every syllable, every unvoiced breath. No irony, in utmost sincerity, petitioning contrary requests. Crushed by answers, impatient with waiting, unable or unwilling to compare. As ever, one finds the greatest fault in others with those sins in common. Margins of ability dwarfed by margins of sensitivity. Ludicrous, absurd, insoluble, churlish. 

Not content with any answer, miscommunication prolongs, delays the inevitable. Silence, misunderstood no less, brings closure, non-elysian, brooding, silence.