Insanity Revisited

Memories hunker behind a door marked “Blessed Oblivion”. The key is under the mat. To choose one, open and peek inside would be a foolish flagellation. Secrets simmer in cannibal pots, lids held down by tenuous fingers. Some truths deserve to be buried. Some memories must be held as closed as a spinster’s knees. Doors opened less than judiciously trigger popping puppets that scream. A mind is only as strong as its most heinous memory. Some minds are olios, badly stirred, their orts floating in a brine of insanity that needs a pinch of salt. Reality paints itself as a circus clown, and changes the rules of life without warning...