Mad Scientist
Note: Fringe is owned by 20th Century Fox, not me.
She called me a mad scientist.
That woman, the lab assistant with the lovely, black hair (why can't I recall her name?). I heard her talking to Peter, and she called me a mad scientist. And he nodded. He agreed.
What is madness?
Why was I in St. Claire's? They said I was insane, but I had obtained clarity! In those lonely 17 years, I felt it snatched away. The medication, the separation. If I was ever insane, it was when I was there.
Ah yes, the accident. Horrible. Unfortunate. But it should have been perfect. Why did it go wrong? Was it truly my fault? Was it the result of an overlooked, miscalculated equation? Or was it fate? Was it . . . God?
I'll never know. I know I'll never know. It's best not to ask questions that you know have unobtainable answers. Not impossible. Never say impossible. Nothing is impossible. I have learned that easily. Yet I know I'll never know.
Did she say I am mad because I propose theories that are impossible? But have I not proven that the impossible can be achieved?
What is madness? Seeing images that do not exist? Hearing voices no one else can perceive? But I know they do exist. I have seen it, experienced it. I and my son live and breath because they exist.
This world has changed so. Yet so much hasn't changed.
It is said that there is a thin line between insanity and genius. I know I am brilliant. I know I have been blessed with genius. But so is Peter, and he is not mad. He is often angry, but he is not mad. What a delightful paradox that is! Yes, Peter, a paradox . . .
He nodded. He agreed with her. And Olivia . . . who can say?
Am I mad?
I shouldn't think such things. I'll never know. Let me comfort myself with what I do know.
What is the formula for root beer again . . .?