What do you venture to describe in the years
where the mist gathers over you like a blanket
and falls down on you like a spiritual rain, so dense
that it condenses your analytical rationale into a
madness that you fear?! And do you tread into
it like it were your own anima, shining its light
on you, albeit what you term as a darkness? And you make your
notes of ultimate reality that should so confound
the reality of your peers that they ostracise you
and cease calling you psychologist. You were
Greater(!), a diviner, a brilliance that studied the
minds of empaths, great minds who had, in fact,
their minds as mirrors of their consciousness, and did you
not become, then, your own subject, your own
weirdness, your awn analytical embodiment of
what was analysed by you all through your life?!
And you looked over helplessly and wearily, as also impatiently at
Freudian libido and id; and discovered that there is
overwhelmingly more, a profundity in a, hitherto, undiscovered anima!
To you a shadow of self, but to me no shadow, but the actual wholesomeness of being!
And you decided that you had finally become
Mad in the wisdom of an incongruity; away from
alleged reality. How do so few of us walk in
Earthly clouds, shattering the gravity of set ways,
set ideas, set morality, set beliefs, set theology,
set demeanours; set rationality, set conventionalities,
set science; realising they are all flawed and should be abrogated for their deceit?!
And we are, then, brave to forge our alleged insanity!
You think the snapping of a mind is mere illusion,
delusion, hallucination, fantasy(!), when you are sure that the archetypes
are all pirouetting in the air around you like
understood convictions, far from being understood by all and sundry!
The collectives are like undeciphered languages that
should only be acknowledged by a sharper posterity!
And our Red Books be shuttered in an undeserved oblivion by our fears?
Sometimes we become strangers to our own device of
creative madness because we fear the hate it would bring
upon us. Do our demons need to be sacrificed, when our
Angels are only celebrations of misguided conveniences
and dystopian habituality that need to be outworn?
Few of us are brave in idea; fewer still, are brave in action!
That we should become, then, the foragers of our bravery
in a desert of seclusion, lone warriors; and destined to be
denied the oasis by the overwhelming world of spiteful antagonists?
And do you think we betray ourselves by our silence or we
invite our murder by being outspoken? We are not merely
carved out of our childhood, as Freud suggested; we are
carved out of a memory, something that lies in a fold
of universal being, consciousness; that stretches into
the realms of Plato’s primordial universal form. That we tap into
when we travel down those distant elusive roads of remembrances!
The unique archetype, the rare bejeweled being, the entrenchment
of enhanced anima, the custodian of Janusian vision that breaks loose
from all appearances, and dives into the apparitions
of mindless faith and belief in comprehensions so
distinctly alien to the nature of convention that it is
leperised into the peripheries of all faculty of
human understanding and perspective as a madness. I know a past
that was Mars, and a life before Mars. I know a future
beyond the Moon, if Venus also became a star on my horizon.
I know that there are involuntary cycles, and voluntary ones
that can be made to manifest after a contest between the harsh
Madness of truth and the convenient reality of treacherous, deceitful convention!
I know the supererogatory of being myself; and that being patient and resilient is not being complacently supine!
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