Madness is an Illusion

"Madness is an illusion."

Professor Schwartzhoff's ancient eyes mapped the room's occupants and tapped his desk to the count of each one. He did this on the occasion that someone was not paying attention: an anomaly for someone of his magnitude and high respect. He counted every pair of eyes that were studying his words, his face, his accent wall of blackened marker board behind him. And without fail, he'd find the one out of the 182 students that was detailing the troubles of the floor instead of the troubles in the professor's mind and words.

"Mr. Portress," his voice raked against the silence. "It is my greatest displeasure to find that the content of that screen is more interesting than the study of theoretical realities. However, I am inclined to remind you that if you so much as think about that apparatus, I'll keep your generous donation of $300 you intended to pay for this course, expel you from it, and let the whole class watch as you mope under the willow tree in the courtyard, an activity you are most familiar with."

Jacob Portress sat stock-still and wide eyed as the professor threatened his removal. Either he was embarrassed the old man knew his "secret" make-out spot or honestly scared for his spot in this course was debatable. I didn't know Jacob personally, but I felt like I did in that moment as he stood, gripped his phone hard in his hand, and performed the walk-of-shame to Schwartzhoff's desk. The professor took the phone, wrapped his free hand around Jacob's elbow, and pulled him so close only he could hear the words being said into his left ear.

Jacob Portress was four shades paler when he turned around and seemed to be collapsing in on himself as he made his way back to his chair.

"Now, where was I?" Schwartzhoff asked. A rhetorical question, of course. "Ah! Madness is an illusion. There are those who process reality in a different manner than you and I. Some say that these people are mentally ill, divinely possessed, and eccentric. Not necessarily true, however. These people process the world against the pressures of society, most commonly referred to as Consensus Reality, or a reality chosen to be real due to people's need to believe something is real. I prefer to believe in something that is of a more mainstream idea that may also appeal to the basic youth like yourselves. Alternate universes."

The class is almost too engaged to write notes; many of the ahead-thinkers set recorders on the Schwartzhoff Podium of Demeaning Stares to go back over after class had ended and take notes. We were hooked on his every word, completely entranced in his lull of bambling.

Schwartzhoff leaned against his desk, a loud creaking from both the old wood and the old man's hip. "These universes are realities in our minds, but we call it imagination." Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl with taped glasses and squirrelly hair look at her friend and mouth 'imagination' while moving her hands in a half circle, mocking an episode of Spongebob. Either the professor didn't notice or he didn't care, because he continued on. "And in our imagination--" The only thing that would dare to cut off the professor is the bell and in that moment, it decided to perform it's only party trick in its loudest setting.