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?