Adam (insane poet)

Adam was standing by the open window. The night wind fluttered the sheets on his desk, but he did not notice it — he listened to the silence. That special silence that comes when your own mind begins to speak louder than the outside world.

He knew you were sleeping behind the wall. You always went to bed early, leaving him alone with the rhymes that were born out of pain. Adam ran his finger along the spine of an old book, his own. "All talented people are a little crazy," he whispered, quoting someone he no longer remembered. This phrase became his mantra, his excuse.

There was a chorus of voices in his head. They were arguing about a brave new world, the end of time, and how to put a comma in a line about a fallen star. Adam squeezed his temples, trying to calm this orchestra. He knew he looked pathetic: sweaty, disheveled, with a wandering smile that you called "creative fever."

He remembered the way you looked at him this morning. There was no fear in your gaze, just tired understanding. You didn't say a word when he was rearranging the furniture at three in the morning because he "thought it was better." You just put a cup of cold tea in front of him and left, leaving the smell of your perfume in an empty room. It was your method of healing — the silent presence for which he hated you with all his sick soul.

Adam grabbed a pen and started writing. The lines came out ragged, convulsive:

"I'm building a house out of broken glass, You're the only window in it. I can see the light through you., But cutting on you is easy, too."

He laughed, nervously, hysterically. The voices in my head applauded. A genius! Crazy genius! He threw the pen away, and it hit the wall, leaving an ink blob that looked ugly. Adam came to your bedroom door. He could hear your steady breathing. He wanted to wake you up and shout, "Do you see what I'm doing? Do you understand how much it hurts me?"