Paralysis. Dementia. Suffering. Iceage.
There is something comforting about a madhouse.
To be at once in the company of hercules, aristophanes
And men and women who don't know their minds,
To be amongst those who work justly in the commerce of
Knowing the line of possible and impossible -
How strange it must be to dwell in the midst of such madness
And know oneself madless.
Madness is this - to be awake and to fight against
That which you were born into.
Geography, time, and words themselves dictate
Our being at every living moment -
Who are we to fight against such forces?
The Universe, expanding contracting existing
Continually espouses indifference to our presence;
It is our own presence that disturbs the dust we kick about
As we toil to find peace amongst such a swamp of consciousness...
To be sane is to be a ship of fools sailing uncharted waters,
Seeing, Hearing, Doing things for the first time every time,
For to be a fool once is a blessing, but we are fools every time
So I say sail, set the fools of your mind drift with a broken compass,
For you will find greater treasures by forging new Universes
With your broken logic and your frayed imaginings
Than any man with a grasp upon reality.
All is reality.
Madness is still the uncharted ocean.