I’m often consumed with the possibility that I’m going insane.
Only the possibility, not the fear.
This is not fear. I don’t care if I sink into insanity. Isn’t the definition of insanity that you don’t know it is happening? It’s like death. It’s like being afraid of something you can never know. I might go crazy tomorrow. I might not have ever seen it coming. I might wake up a blubbering fool crying about the roses growing in the pool. It’s all nonsense. Still, I am consumed with the possibility.
I imagine what I would be like as an insane man.
I often wonder if synchronicity does not lead us into the yaw of madness.
If too many aspects of your life inexplicably coalesce, you might be mad. Sorry, but it’s true. Your life has many divergent and convergent paths and your sanity is what keeps them all separate. In fact, I would argue the definition of insanity is that moment when the paths all intersect inauspiciously at a dark corner deep in your Hansel and Gretel forest. Insanity is when everything blurs and treads the same path that your mind attempts to foster separation.
Sometimes my life blurs and I find I’m stricken by a disorienting sense of deja vu, an unnatural familiarity. I feel like the world will explode any moment. Or my head will.
If my life remains segregated from itself, all is well.
My mind freaks out when elements fuse and become synchronous.
Today I felt I was losing my mind.
The most comical situation at the bus stop this morning. When I arrived there were 2 short, old, squat women waiting for the bus. I’ve seen them before but each was alone. This time they were together, conjoined like a pair of bulbous frijole masses. Two short, squat really gross women. These ladies are in the “I’d rather cut my dick off than fuck ’em” territory. They are really gross. And squat. I’m the shortest dude in the world and I still felt tall in comparison. One of these ladies wears a mumu and she has massive Rhino legs encased in cracked sunburnt skin. So I stood there and soon, another short, squat woman waddles up to our bus stop. I’ve seen her around as well. She is every bit as repulsive as the other two. She is a very nice lady but how in the world did it happen that at this moment in time, I was standing at a bus stop with three every short, squat, unattractive women waiting for the same bus? Three women I’ve seen many times on the route but never at the same time? In fact, that old joke about how they might be twins (or triplets) because I’ve “never seen then in the same room together” came tumbling down this morning.
As if this wasn’t reason enough to send me on a downward spiral of tumultuous self-implosion, then I go to Facebook and find more enigmatic replications. Is it Facebook? Is it me? Who is mad?
Where is the maddness?
Am I mad?
Is fate mad?
Who do I question. I’m overwhelmed with the synchronicity.
What is up with my friends on Facebook replicating each lives like driven DNA?
Is it mass hysteria?
And a few hours earlier, some unrelated Facebook friends posted this uncanny anthology. What is going on here? I missed the memo. I always do. I always feel left out, I missed something here.
Alienation nourishes insanity.
Insanity’s strongest legacy is paranoia.
And paranoia is what I feel when the world conspires to recite the same chain of events to which I was not privy.
Insanity is not fitting in to other mysteries and being canny to this disjunction.
One day I will wake up in another bed that is my own, live another’s life that was my own. And I will be mad.