Standing in the hot steamy shower. The hot water scalds his grimy soul. Layers. Swirling down the drain. The air. Steamy. Muddled. Each breath searing. Gasping.
His mind. Chaos. Dark. Full of screams. Cacophony. Pitch getting louder. Rising to a peak. Breaking point. So near. Yet so far.
They needed a release. So did he.
Wandering between the chaos and cacophonies he drifted through life. Unlost yet captive. Till she waltzed into his commotion. Calmly taking charge, setting him free. All he saw was her eyes. Deep. Mysterious. He knew they were magic and was now bound. Under their spell he was lost and did not want to be found.
It’s possible to find order in chaos, and it’s equally possible to find chaos underlying apparent order. Order and chaos are slippery concepts. They’re like a set of twins who like to swap clothing from time to time. Order and chaos frequently intermingle and overlap, the same as beginnings and endings. Things are often more complicated, or more simple, than they seem. Often it depends on your angle. I think that telling a story is a way of trying to make life’s complexity more comprehensible. It’s a way of trying to separate order from chaos, patterns from pandemonium.