Snap
Sanity is a relative concept; if others agree with you, you are "sane". If you are misunderstood and they refuse to listen, you are branded irrevocably as "insane". One man's solution is another man's depravity. The fact that this perverse nature for self-betterment exists, inherently, in all beings is irrelevant. If you act upon it with a silver-tongue and stoic determination, you are insane.
Nothing had been more apparent, dangling from shards of the Bifrost; not unlike an autumn leaf, brown and ragged after its radiance has been stolen by the one it once thought to be its maker. The betrayal was enough to cause anyone to wilt. Better to grow with the knowledge that you are monstrous than to have it thrust upon you with much pomp and circumstance. The drive to become bigger, stronger, faster and to climb higher is accelerated to exhilarating levels. The plea to subvert that which you feel you have just become is paramount; a comforting sustenance which only you can see. You are not in any way forced to fall, even if you see disappointment in the eyes of what was once your world. You choose to fall all the same. And, dead or no, you tumble until you reach the ground, already broken.
Even when death fails to take you – nay, rejects you – you still refuse to be shunted aside like day-old offal. You take your endeavour elsewhere, as the need for adoration is desperate now. Few can shatter your illusion and, though you see sense in the most horrific of things, you long to rescue your lost love. Your eyes have been sewn open to the complexities of the Universe; what others call "madness". Clarity and foreknowledge are your only allies as you are beaten into the ground, invited to join the specks of dust. You stand with them, side by side, as you face the oppressors of your hopes and dreams, purely because one man said too much.
You can never reclaim what once was. There is only the rage; the fire, the spitting viper in your belly. As if any of these beings can comprehend your significance in this world, in this plane, in these Realms. They are nothing when compared to you. Akin to a wounded tiger, you fight harder – claws out, razor-sharp – limping as you clamour to retain the invisible balance of power, ultimately certain that you will lose. And though you try to mould the cracked and tampered pieces of your soul into something that shines again, the damage is irreparable. They will seek comfort in your defeat.
And so goes the definition of "madness", by a madman. Intellect personified and placed in a beautiful kaleidoscope, trapped inside because, try as he might, he cannot step out whole again. Yet it is a paradox, because your perception is altered and you see clearly. The solutions to all of life's problems are there if you just reach out and snatch them. Perhaps madness is ill-described by those whom have not experienced it. Maybe their insight is skewed? Who would know? Certainly not the madman.
How odd it is, that incarceration provides the best time for reflection. It is why prison walls whisper so many secrets.
Reviews are adored. MC. xx