All the light we cannot see
I think, for one day, I want to discover what it is like to be mad, or be with the mad. I would like to taste the great dysfunctionalities of my incapable being, yet still possess the living faculties of being able to transcribe my stifled proclivity towards that illness. What is it that we are conferred because confiscation was done?
I think, for a brief moment, that aberrant behaviour can be rationalised. After knowing what pain is, what numbness is, what laughter is, we turn to different spaces to discover realer things about fatalism, about simulations, about why moral obligations exist if there is theological determinism. Contentment with normalcy provides no such cogitation! nor individuality!
I think, for an inexplicable reason, that if being mad were a choice, and should that selfish choice be approved, I should see the world as prodigious. I became clear at a time too late, at a time when the leaves have yellowed, at a time after heyday.