Insanity

Fire Flying Free.

"I can feel the thirst inside of me,

Begging to be let free.

The need to burn alive so strong

So poignant is my need.

You touch my face and fire!

It spreads inside of me.

Igniting waves of tremors

Shaking free disparity.

Come closer now my love,

Feel the need in me.

Come closer now my hatred

And set desire free.

Trail those lovely fingers

Along the edge of me

Set pale white skin ablaze

And feel the need in me. "

Insanity. 1. lack of reason or good sense: extreme foolishness, or an act that demonstrates such foolishness

A word recognized with both horror and disgust.

A man goes about his day the same everyday. In the morning he wakes up, his eyes a slightly less vibrant shade from the day before. he brushes his teeth, combs his thinning hair, and eats his morning "heart healthy" cereal without tasting a bite. He pulls his tie tight against his pale neck. He can't remember the last time he went for a hike or even enjoyed himself. His hands are those of a stranger. As he stares down loathing at his long, thin fingers, he realizes he cannot live this way any longer. On that "normal" day in his "normal" home in a very "normal" neighborhood he broke his "normal" routine. Friends and coworkers watched him transform from his old "normal" self into something strange and bizarre. He was insane. But through his eyes, the world was insane. Their need for normalcy was foreign and strange. He could not live this way --the "normal" way.

Recently I have watched one of the most brilliant, alluring, and intelligent people I have had the privilege to know undergo something similar. The world said he lost his mind, but as I watch the fire grow inside of him, all I can do is smile. They fear him because they cannot predict his next movement. They despise him because he has no regard for "normal" human understandings, protocol, and relationships. He is inhuman...but because of this, he is beautiful in a way none of them will ever be. He exists in truth, momentary as it is, he seeks the beauty of each passing second, igniting the word in a swirl of flames and ash. Every morning he awakes a new version of himself, and while he is incomplete, he does not wear a mask of complacency. He does not pretend. He lives, he burns, and he builds anew. He is perfection because he is imperfect.

As I watch people attempt to understand and psychoanalyze him, I feel a sense of humor and annoyance. Why must he be caged like the rest of the world? Is it really necessary for the world to understand his chaos? Or can we simply accept that he is a flame that cannot be predicted, contained, or snuffed out?

The Lost Sensei

"Sensei (先生^?) is a Japanese title used to refer to or address teachers,professors, professionals such as lawyers, CPA and doctors, politicians,clergymen, and other figures of authority.^[1] The word is also used to show respect to someone who has achieved a certain level of mastery in an art form or some other skill: accomplished novelists, sweepstakers, musicians, and artistsfor example are addressed in this way. The two characters that make up the term can be directly translated as "born before" and implies one who teaches based on wisdom from age and experience.^{[2]" -- Wikipedia}

It was a snowy day in Northern Indiana when a friend and I began to discuss our childhood role models and the differences between ourselves and our siblings who are nearly a decade younger than we are. As we sat and discussed the psychology of how our siblings developed based on the difference in their family dynamics because of their age difference and lack of a sibling that could function as a peer, we began to delve into the idea of a mentor in their lives. In an ideal society, we both agreed that every child would be assigned a non-familial mentor. A teacher who, not only would help the young mind develop, but would encourage a child to seek outside of the norm. As we discussed this idea, we became more and more aware that in the US and likely many other countries in the world, there is a certain gap between the young and the old that grows wider with time. Children and their elders do not embrace the discomfort of the age gap but instead seek relationships with people who are experiencing similar stages in life. Would it not be ideal and wonderful to live in a society where upon reaching a certain age, you were assigned to a child based off of your own similarities and differences and then you were able to reach new levels of understanding based off of these relationships. Instead of dying with a wealth of wisdom and knowledge that never had the chance to cultivate and grow, you can sow the seeds of your experience as well as gain true understanding of yourself.

So I end with a question to this long string of random thought. Where has the desire to learn gone in the hearts and minds of today’s society and moreover, in what ways can we ever hope to know ourselves if we instead insist on living and dying in a constant state of comfort?

Foundations

Ulalume

Edgar Allen Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir -
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through and alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll -
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole -
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -
Our memories were treacherous and sere, -
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) -
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) -
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn -
As the star-dials hinted of morn -
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn -
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: "She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs -
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies -
To the Lethean peace of the skies -
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes -
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: "Sadly this star I mistrust -
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! -ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! -let us fly! -for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust -
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust -
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight! -
See! -it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright -
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom -
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb -
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied: "Ulalume -Ulalume -
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere -
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed -I journeyed down here! -
That I brought a dread burden down here -
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -
This misty mid region of Weir -
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

--This poem has meant many things to me. If you get a chance, listen to the Jeff Buckley recording. He reads in meter beautifully and creates an extremely haunting effect.

You can find it here ---> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgeaqpmqUT8