Progress of Reality of Insanity

PROGRESS of REALITY of INSANITY

CHAPTER 3

MADNESS                             

            One who shows signs of mental aberration is, inevitable, and with dispatched cruelness, shut off from familiar thoughtless interchange, and mostly always condemned; his isolation is unwitting, yet strongly enforced toward him on every direction by curiosity, indifference, aversion, anger, never pity, and in so far as he is human enough to need free and equal instinct and feel the lack of it, he suffers pain and loss of a kind and degree which others can only faintly imagine, but for the most part ignore. The best of us all are but poor such wrecks just saved from the mental graveyard. We should expect the hurt is strong and its nature lacks caressing. Especially for the ones viewed as unbalanced, his feelings have got a deadly wound that cannot be cushioned by his groaning. He wonders whether the remarkable originators who first had the notion of determining mental irregularities used this useless exercise to draw away from their own hectical motives. Nonetheless, we, those labeled the oddities of life, the ones whom fingers all too recklessly point to; we experience a diversified observation for men or our extremes of excitability, our extremes of mystifying, perhaps mostly our erratic eruptions of cognition.

            A hundred million years of man’s existence and in these few short ones of mine my suffering has far out weighted all others uncompromisingly, inexorably; as if I were their ransom, their scapegoat; insolently; as if the total weight of their summed up pain has been laid hard upon my shoulders. In my moment of change from one form to another; a suffering change from something gentle into something seemingly possessed and strange, as a mutation, as the switching of batons; a metamorphosis, if you will; the insignia is put in place and the richness and hunger shows up. Bipolar is its own nature, it doesn’t know me at all, it doesn’t care either; it may well believe it is a Second Coming its deception is that unaffected. It comes to convert my quibble impressions, for its own, to a complete absurdness a senseless thinking horror; it carries a fierce refiner’s fire which purges away the dross of my human thought leaving a painful view to suggest an impenetrable silent dullness. At its desired pace and time my person will flip and begin to inflate; I experience incalculable integrity of opinion, talkativeness becomes forced; self-justification is the motive for the face of contradictoriness a zest and a temptation; with a heavy march perception changes. I escape from the chains that did bind my thoughts like iron links, shackled with fetters, dragging thru the mud; now engendering conclusive facts, separable from the inconclusive by my mind that already understands. What have I become other than an authentic madman? I am a man who preferred to become mad, in the socially unaccepted sense of the word, rather than forfeit a certain inferior idea of humanness. So society has strangled us in its asylums me and all those it wanted to get rid of or protect it from, because we refused to become its accomplices in its certain ugly actions. A madman is also a mad whom society did not want to hear, and we certainly have something to say; and whom it wanted to prevent from uttering certain intolerable truths. There are few of us that are not rather shocked by our hindrance, and that all that is and has been is only the beginning of talent in magnitude of totality in its dawn, the arts. I are not ashamed of my episodes – as I look out on the blessed morning sunlight, which comes to me like a bright-winged angel beckoning me to sing out strongly into the day that stretches its face ahead of mine. My full void of apprehension speeds me on; no evil-genius, no prince-of-the-devils or ghost-dance exist in me, no -fear I have none; my inspiration is of ecstaticness. What rights are those that dare not resist for it? In my fullness I dip into the future, far past what the human eye can believe; my visions are of the airy central blue seas before the moonlight of tomorrowness, all the world that will be; I see them with their magic sails pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down from heaven with shouting and singing, music unheard, with the standard of people plunging through the thunder storm; far along the world-wide whisper of the East-West rushing warm, the common sense of all shall fold a fret-full awe. These great events in life would leave someone unmoved except by their warrant that pulls us along pass our consciousness, and when I think of them, it becomes surreal. Even the tall scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the tulips of oblivion that inspire paintings and sculptures which are but images of what has passed. I allure shadows cast by outward appearances on stone or canvas, having in themselves no separate existence but move with their feelings and with shades of color. I see a shadow of substance with melody and it enhances a waterfall of emotions bright and clear. Where I see the spirit it will cry out before pain, it is obscure crying; I give my sorrow names. Nothing is calm of our criterion; our rage is a triumph, a door to enlightenment. In our eagerness to understand our impressions, we often lose our hold of the vagueness that comprehends them; unknown destructible forces, only changing their form, as forces do, and passing from rage in pain to clarity. My vigor intensifies; fire rages up and quickly a busy hum of a maddening crowd turns me into a human dynamo.