When you were younger you thought madness was almost glamorous in a way. You believed that all great men were somewhat insane, all brilliant art was born of suffering and you wished to be great yourself, to taste that intensity and that unsocial stubbornness that comes with delusion.
You had no craft, but you decided life would be your canvas, and you set about attempting to make yourself the eternal outsider, swirling in chaos.
You tried, you really did, but every time you approached the precipice you withdrew. The warmth, or coldness, of human feeling always drew you back from the solitary world of the maniac. You attempted to force the matter by many means, chemistry, illumination, lack of sleep. None of it was enough, not because it couldn’t be, but because you were a coward, because you never had the heart to finish the thing. You were never fully able to betray life, to truly stand in condemnation of the normal.
And then there she was…
When she came into your life, she showed you real madness. Not the glamour of greatness achieved because or despite of it, but the pure substance, acrid and violent. There was no beauty in it, no softness, only endless terror. She had no special powers, no special charisma – not even the redemption of a quaint eccentricity. Only terror and stubbornness in equal measure, tears and threats of suicide, screaming and noises you never knew the human mouth could utter.
You would do almost anything to free her from her affliction, to ease the pain, end the suffering. That which she regurgitated upon the canvas of life should never have seen the light of day. Without poetry, without harmony. Jagged edges, disgust, terror – arranged haphazardly, as though the scribbles of a child.
Those which the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad… and now you sense a twinge of fear. What if it one day happens to you?