A possible chance of randomness.

This, what you are about to read, is some totally random stuff that only the mad can think about. I have had an idea of a single storyline in my mind for the last couple of days and I really want to get it out of my system. Bearing in mind, this is free-writing, so what you see before you is totally written on the spot. And it's only short. Nothing too extreme. No drafts. Enjoy x

This feeling of waking up and looking out across the bay was one that only a trained adventurer had felt. Except now. I was standing here, on my bamboo balcony, looking out over the sea; crystal clear blues with the odd rainbow fish splashing vigorously in and out of the water. The sun, a yellow spotlight slowing breaking over the distant horizon, sends its bright rays into my squinting eyes. I haven't felt this free, this... alone, in what seems like a lifetime. But I can't deny the fact that staying in this disturbing environment, amongst the degenerate lowlives and scumbags that call this place home, has really done me no good.
    I want to be able to awake one morning and see the rain, the clouds and the sorrow of a quaint little village, but know I'm safe; without the landlord patrolling the hallways armed with a knife and a oily black cloth. I smell the urine emanating from his clothes every time I walk by him; no wonder he calls this place home - he fits right in. And I want to be able to sleep every night without the same question buzzing through my mind - “Can one man's madness be another's real life?” Do I have to tread a hundred thousand steps to get away from what left back home? The feeling has stayed with me since I left, and it won't leave. The sight of their bloody and bruised body's won't leave my mind. Just lying there, limp and lifeless, their eyes wide open. That's the worst part. Their eyes. And my sister; her smile. Her lifeless and ever-haunting smile has been branded into my mind like some scarred cattle-brand on the rear of a stick thin cow.
    He always talked of madness, my late uncle, always. Never my fathers or my grandfathers, but some distant boy who wanders the "plains of Vietnam" with his rucksack on his back. Himself at a younger age. He went mad out here. And I'm going the same way, I tell you.

    Somebody once asked me, "Define madness" and now I know the answer.

I am madness. And madness is me.