My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The mind of a madman is a very dangerous place to be. In those folds of gray matter, words go in and screams come out, and all the dreams stored there sit with harsh laughter weeping from their pores. There are craters, pits you can fall into and never be able to scramble out of; the walls are still slippery for you to get a firm grip, and you risk asphyxiation once the folds of thoughts finally enclose around your fragile body. The cerebral cortex becomes a vortex for grand scheme plans for redemption - or domination. The cerebellum can only bring physical balance, not mental or emotional. And there's still a little bit of aggressive T-Rex in those stem synapses. And then comes the junk, hard in the vein of the madman. What is meant to sedate makes him more active. He runs marathons at midnight in boxers and gets a tattoo on his chest that says, "I Only Have Days Left." He leaves the parlor in flames. No one knows where he got the matches. I pack

I wanted to believe that it was real. That it was happening. That the human race was standing on the precipice of something extraordinary. I didn't want it to be faked or staged. And yet, there I was, staring at the multiple television screens suspended above my head. Above the population's head. People all milling about like cattle as the propaganda entered through our ears and noses and came out from our mouths in artificial jubilation.