The Beautiful Madness
A pity, really, that the world, since it’s very beginning, has raged a silent, consistent war against the grumblings of the individual.
The man, the woman that stares into the stars, and, distinct from her family, asks the questions that none should ask, that for the sake of getting through the day, have forbidden that they are asked in the first place.
But it’s incessant, a search for meaning that in turn criticizes every aspect of our waking existence.
Perhaps it begins as a hopeful and joyous dance in the spiritualities men have granted us. But as time progresses, and the failed attempts and years rummaging through philosophy grow tiresome, a depression emerges, and the tendrils of brilliance and sadness merge as a piece of art.
The life is a sacred one, but fragile, and tipped by the persecution of such a mind, that can see the world in ways others cannot or refuse to.
And as the age goes on and the world impresses its expectations on the soul, the absolute pain and beauty of it descends to a sort of madness of paradox within.
He is a god in the world, she is its master.
And many people such as this, treading the fine line between genius and insanity, succumb to the rope, to the pills, or to a delusion of greatness that cannot be fulfilled, myself included.
The madness of a person who believes in more, but understands its nonexistence, is the madness that produces kindness, and such will alter the course of all lives he or she will come into contact with.
They can allow others to choose more for themselves, the latter having the ability to do this painlessly, and perhaps, though we live in torment, it is the lives we touch, on this meaningless and ridiculously wonderful and terrible rock, that makes our mental suffering worth it. Through the blissful ignorance of those we pass, perhaps we can ease the raging complexity of too much truth.
Maybe I’m wrong about all of this, maybe I know nothing. Maybe I will spend the rest of my life in endless and cyclic dips from insight into awful darkness. Clarity is pain, reality is suffering and it has made me a kind man.
This, is what I offer to the world, let them live a life I never could. And so I say to those like me, those who see, that there may be nothing legitimate, nothing real, either in this life or one to come, but because we want with every fiber of our being to believe that there is, it is real in the minds of those we cross.
But then again, why do we grasp at concepts so much that have no substance?
None of it really makes much sense at all.
But as long as we keep talking about it and telling stories, I suppose it doesn’t have to.
I suppose it doesn’t have to.
