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Not mad.
Is he conscious? is he living? is he me? Help me, please I beg you. There is no help, only death. Death is your only solace. But don’t worry yourself with that, you do not and cannot know that, do you understand? Bittersweet irony. Or maybe it’s just bitter.
Alive but not living, what is true and what is are not always the same. Life is true, but I cannot live it. Thank you, sir, is there anything else I can help you with today?
Your shame is battling the pity that is attempting to creep into the hearts of those who look upon you. You who were once a man, but you are no longer. You’re not conscious anymore. But is consciousness the measure of a man? I hear myself scream YES YES YES, and a thousand more yesses.
They see you and they cannot sympathise their hearts defend themselves against the threat of sadness. They cannot be sad, they must be happy. We live in a happy world full of happy people, where everyone is happy all the time. Period. But behind closed doors everybody pours out their souls, be it through tears or blood or darkness or emptiness, or if you’re lucky, through madness. Are you one of the lucky ones? Am I?
Use your eyes, don’t just look, see. See what is there, in front of you, calling out to you. Do you see it? It sees you.
In brief moment of sanity, I look around and I cry a tear of passion, half is for joy, half is for grief. I cannot express myself in any other way. My heart splinters like an axe in a tree, which rains woodchips and debris that spreads outwards attacking all of my bodily centres. Am I sad, or is this pain? Or are they the same? Hmm. O let me not be mad! Not mad. But is madness liberty, where I am not forced into happiness by social convention. Nobody likes a misery guts.
And then the moment has passed, I stand up and walk away, happy as a child at play.
