What does this writer’s madness look like?

Death. Not the peace of passing to another realm and discovering truth, but the still, cold absence of everything. Awareness without a body, without senses, bereft of  an identifiable self. Deep loss and no emotions with which to feel it; just knowing that loss is there and feeling is not. There is no connection to anything that provides a framework for self-identification. A conscious vacuum. This chasm I free fall into each time I leap toward the unwordable awareness of deep existence as one and as all.

Then I grapple for paper, pen and words.