Insanity is the handsome man, perched dangerously high above the churning waters. His messy, peroxide blonde hair flaps wildly in the cruel wind, catching the wavering light and framing his face like a sinister halo. His un-buttoned, lose shirt furls out, moving involuntarily with the storm. It flies up, surrounding him like a dark pair of wings beating heavily through the howling wind. Whilst his clothing twists and twirls swiftly under the forceful storm, he remains stationary. Merely a concrete object suspended indefinitely amongst the tempest; he has no power to stop the storm, just the urge to drain the thrill from the explosion. The excitement is his drug, so strangely addictive it numbs him from the fear and keeps him from losing his nerve. He beckons to stragglers, capturing them with his enchanting song - the soft humming of the winds - before flinging them into the war of faded fury. The rumbling greys of the storm encasing him only emphasize the contrasting colors that he radiates. His brilliantly blue eyes gleam through the clouds, two small slits of enchanting excitement in the midst of destruction. They are the deep pools that fool weak swimmers. The rings of liquid so beautifully blue they must be poisonous. His mouth is curled into an unrecognizable expression. He is neither smiling, nor is he grimacing. Behind his curiously crimson lips, lie snowdrop white teeth, like an unpainted canvas. His voice is lost in the piercing storm, as he shrieks soundlessly. He is deafened to the cries of agony that rip forth amongst the raging storm, and ignorant to the pleading faces, streaked with murky tears, that whizz past him propelled by the wind. And though the world around him is hectic and noisy, in his head is nothing but silence. Still, like the eye of a storm, nothing stirs within his mind. He is numb. He no longer carries a personality. The salt from the tempest has smoothed his skin and stolen his scent. Had he been standing alone, away from his storm, he would still have smelt of the raging winds and salty spray. His victims choke on the saline water and furious air of the storm, tasting his acidic anger. They gasp and gag, desperate for breath, fingernails clawing savagely at their jaws and throats. It sizzles unpleasantly and unsettled on your tongue, a burning sensation that gives way to the sharp aftertaste. Insanity is the medley of instruments living an un-composed piece, the raging organ and uneven beat of the drum. He is the soulful music that thuds through your bones riddled with strings and percussion. The dangerous piece, that ends in a soft and sadly tinkering bell. He creates the plumes of smoke that clouds the citys vision, and breathes the ashes that fall from the skies. He hides in the shadows, silently lurking on the edge of society. He shudders, constantly shaking as if the cool translucent appearance of his skin is the cold that chills him.
Sanity is irrevocably rational. The conformity of everything about her places her steadfast into the background of every town and city. She is the grass in the garden, and the leaves on the trees. She is the lone lamp on a street of many fools; the only thing that offers the safety of light. Her amber eyes reflect this security, two pure gleams of light, allowing her to gaze through even the murkiest cloud. They are framed by thick eyelashes that hide them away, protect them. Her long brown hair engulfs her face and shoulders. It hides the scars from which she has learnt. The small tokens from each of her lessons, still there, are shining on her skin. Each one enough to break a weak person down and leave them crying, but for all they try, they cannot destroy her. As the breeze shifts her light hair it blows around her scent. It is simple, yet immensely complicated. She smells, to each person, of their own home. Of the sanctuary it offers and the burdens it enforces. A mild smell you never notice was there until its gone, one that masks over the others and prevents the overwhelming scents of danger and panic swallowing you up and choking you. It is the normal taste that follows the foul flavors left from un-enjoyed meals. The one that rids your throat of the tang, you so despise, and prevent it from lingering and infecting tastes to come. Her skin is coarse and rough, ruined by the rigors of life. Her fingers are not slim and beautiful; they are short and well built. Her touch, although not soft, is soothing in that it feels real enough to be true and true enough to be real. Where she walks, no miracles arise. No strange occurrences riddle the path on which she treks, unnoticed. The true wonder merely being that she remains unharmed, and that her path, although not envied, a safe one. Her hands graze softy at the air around her, unable to touch the unseen horrors of this world, yet accepting them as true. She does not believe in what she cannot see, instead placing her faith in herself, to carry herself through. Her voice rings clearly, like a lone bell. Its deep clanging, not typically beautiful, but one that lends truth and hope to others around her. It calls quietly to the world, wishing them to see the genuineness with which it rings. With each glance at the clock, she accepts what must end. She acknowledges the only thing in life that is certain, death, and allows it to dictate what she achieves. However understanding Sanity is, she will not allow herself to be conquered by others greatest fear. She ticks away through life, like the hands on her watch accomplishing what she can and not allowing herself to be burdened by what she cannot. Sanity is a dying breed, one of the last that can restore the earth to its former glory. And once the last grain of sand has run out, and hit the glassy floor of the hourglass, and she returns to the earth from which she came, who will save us then?