Empty Thoughts Of Madness

The Concept of Madness

They say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, but in essence if this were actually true, it would mean that the entirety of the human race were victims to varying stages of the illness and none of us are sane. I know that society has forever had a fear of people whose brains have travelled on different wavelengths to what is considered the norm; that people who speak of delusions and voices and live in a psychological realm of fantasy need to be removed from society, shunned and then duly forgotten about so that madness does not need to be acknowledged. If you take a metaphorical step back from it all though, and look at the world as though you had no inclination f what it was all about, I can guarantee that all you would see would be chaos and people running around trying to fulfil agendas that do not matter in the macrocosmic scheme of being.

You would witness life's individual microcosms intertwining and clashing and causing sparks to fly, Death praying on both the innocent and the guilty and breeding its sorrow into people's vulnerable minds just to rip it apart, dictators and manipulators causing world-wide butterfly effects from the safety of their safe houses just so they can steal a few more pounds from common man, modern day Romeo and Juliet's declaring undying love for the other and then ripping and stitching each other's hearts back up, madmen and murderers and cheaters, liars and fakes, and people in power molesting children to then cover the mouths, ears and tracks leading to them, in money. We have the car crash prima donna's of the gutters digging gold out of dead men's graves, porn star plastic fantastic with nooses hanging from around their necks and the whole world's tongue of morality cracking their whips, the prostitutes opening their bouquet of rotten roses for every STD infected man and woman in town whilst injecting sunshine into their veins alongside the students, hippies and the lawyers. Then there's the religious people striving for wars in order to create pacifism whilst people starve and die all the world over nothing and crude Hollywood clichés cry into their cocktail glasses over broken nails and Jimmy Choos and become living Barbie dolls. We have the homeless degenerating on street corners and setting up home in newspaper-ed cardboard boxes under bridges for Christmas, a girl in a gingham dress with hollow eyes smiling placatory from inside the lens of a photograph whilst her teacup façade hides an inner storm which threatens to break and consume her, a comedian who is the heart and soul of a party whose midnight companion is the dregs of an empty bottle and his own severed wrists, and the man who hides himself in the shadows with the notion that when the world becomes a good place and when pigs learn to fly, he can step outside and allow the Light to touch his saddened soul.

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Madness, in reality, does not exist and neither does sanity or normality. If it did, we are all consumed by the fear of becoming an outcast or for our thought processes to be that far out of the boundaries that we come back full circle and society shuns us. From my disjointed point of view, it just seems that the whole world is infected by madness, but for some people it eats them from the outside in and others from the inside out.