In the Mind of Madness

Does madness descend gradually? Does the prospect of madness scare? Does it strike suddenly, leaving the victim the choice not to be? Does he fight against it? And when he does begin that mad journey, is there a part of him, a minuscule part nestled in protection in his brain that strains to exert enough influence to help in the retraction of the steps of its owner back to sanity?

Is the madman blind? For if he is not, does he see how different he is from the multitude of people he wanders amongst? Does he know but simply doesn’t care? Does he have lucid moments? Or is the veil so thickly dark and heavy that he mistakes his lucidity for madness just as we mistake our ephemeral insanity for full-blown madness?

Does the madman taste? Or does his state numb his tastebuds? Does it enhance it, turning lemons to lemonade? Those maggot-infested loaves, do they taste like living mayonnaise? Does the madman think? What is his train of thoughts like? Long and unbroken or short and chopped? Does the madman think of us as madmen, and does he pride in his difference? Or is he
vaguely aware of his difference, willing himself to be like others?

And when the madman dies, who is his judge? Is it the sane God or the mad God (that we might not have heard about)? Does the mad God have commandments for the mad ones? Does he have a mad heaven with man men traipsing about in madmandise either nude, hurriedly clothed or in white feathered straitjackets? And what does their hell look like, sound like? A continual mumble of gibberish that, in its moments of silence, seems like the worst hell ever?

Or does the sane God judge the madman? Against what parameter does he do? Does he judge the madman for actions just before his death, like him stealing a corncob off coal just before he got his brain knocked off three feet in the air by a Mack truck? Or does his judgement riffle through his life backwards, automatically halting, weighing his actions before his lunacy set in, whether he ought to land on the right or left hand of God the Sane?

Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps we all are. Perhaps the ones who we call mad are those who let sanity slip too soon, those who never hid theirs well, or those who wanted to be so different they literally held that thread of sanity and let it snap?