The Raven

A group of ravens is a conspiracy or an unkindness. What I will tell you is far from scheming or cruel – perhaps unnerving at best; mildly unnerving to you, reader, might I clarify, as you are not here with me. You should be glad you are not here. I am glad you are not, and this is not because I do not wish to come across you; rather for your psyche's sake I pray you remain away. This slate of parchment was once blank entirely, and I think, for your welfare, you should put this down, tuck it into the desk drawer and leave it there beneath another leaflet or two for the next one to find.

I have been left desolate and engulfed wholly by unease, confined tightly by its menacing claws. Ravens, too, have claws, but it is not the raven that has its deathly grip around me. It is similar to the raven on one account. Both the raven and the aura have a presence that suffocates and simultaneously pierces the atmosphere. These feelings are not stark, as one might assume; rather, they complement one another in overpowering an adversary. It is apparent that I have been the aura’s antagonist. All six feet and five inches of me. I am dwarfed by its gargantuan impact, but it is not my physical being it hinders.

I am aware that unease is not the typical catalyst of prominent feelings; that being uneasy is not painful – instead, it is uncomfortable, and is usually caused by a mere inconvenience. This pungent feeling begins as discomfort, ebbing in and out steadily, until it surges and settles, festering further each day.

Its pressure is unyielding. Doctors call it insanity; lunacy due to my supreme intelligence, but because I am conscious of having a declining mental state, I would not say that I have gone completely mad.

Perhaps, in this instance, ignorance is bliss.

To unshackle the weights bound to my chest would be heavenly. To quash the burden clinging onto my shoulders with the insurmountable adhesive medium of consciousness would ignite the most profound sensation of joy. I know what is melting my resolve. I want it to stop. The aura halts its journey for nothing.

I crave mundane normality.

What unsettles many, I have found, is that they tend to agree with this notion – they too believe the roots of their issues stem from their high cognitive abilities. What scares them is the fact they are not able to wipe away their psyche to its rudimentary form. These people live in secluded regions of society: up in the mountains like I do, or further down towards the sea. We are alienated because we have been deemed as misfits, and frankly, it bothers me nil. Society has qualms about my mental state because it is unable to empathise with me and my journey to discover inner peace.

I am a danger to others due to the tangible manifestations of my insanity, – I hit a man for irking me once – but, I suppose, after unknowingly pestering and subsequently surviving the aura since my adolescence, do I really have much to fear? I have poked the downfall of man with a stick for decades as it has camped away in its dark cavern, and it has got its claws around me, sure, but I have processed this mental turmoil in a silent manner.

I have seen the clinically insane; those nailed to the infirmary walls by the tongue. They slice off their ears in the name of love and drink until they drown the deluge of utter ecstasy. Euphoria only occurs when a smart man is not plagued by the faults of reality: when he is asleep, inebriated or dead. These things are not entirely helpful in leading a fulfilling life, doctors say – but I suppose the smart man has already crossed out the possibility of leading a life composed of anything but struggle and he knows better than to try to make it less insufferable. Efforts like these are fruitless with the aura around.

Regular humans hate discomfort. This is why they have such an instinctive aversion to harm. Yet, the most logical, well-informed people are the ones who yearn deeply for discomfort – to be challenged or to discover a purpose, perhaps. Akin to regular people, we obsess over generating joy for ourselves in an effort to give life meaning. Our stark definitions of happiness are what dissect humankind. Smart people willingly plunge themselves into sleep, drunkenness or death because they are most happy when they cannot know; when they are numb from their thoughts and external triggers.