Blurred Edges

When the room starts to spin and there is nothing to hold onto; when the outline of the once familiar blurs beyond recognition and bleeds across dimensions; when the mosaic keeps rearranging itself, and, instead of finding the new perspectives helpful, we merely keep finding them. The silent scream is invalidated before it can be noticed. Death's icy embrace and other strangleholds we give ourselves to... lurk and haunt and hold out promises they cannot keep. Why am I so often deceived?
What if the spinning and blurred edges were actually the beginnings of seeing more accurately? That what I have assumed to be healthy is the lie, and to return to a stable, sharply focused experience would be to seal the door on the tomb, forever locking myself in a cramped, though self-justifying world. The darkness reframed as our all-encompassing orthodoxy. The familiarity with which we are certain about each "fact" masking the fact that we are, in fact, dead.