Some people go to great lengths to deny insanity runs in their family; but to hide your own wife in an attic, to keep your future bride deep in the dark about your reservations to admit your attraction to someone who went mad, reveals a weak link in your own psyche.
Actions speak louder than unspoken words; spoken words reflect a hall of mirrors; intentions lie on the backside of each mirror; images straighten ties behind a veil; consciousness hides between light and darkness; between the surface and backside of words; the language games spoken and unspoken; in a hall of mirrors, we encounter a multiplicity of images; speak or remain silent, it matters not; a drop in the bucket of curved spacetime; for aeons, we did not exist, then poof! as if out of nowhere, humans reside.
Who is more real? Your own mirror image, or this skin bag of bones called your body? Can you remember how you used to look? Are memories of self any different than ones held by your mirror image? Does the mirror know you better you? Does the mirror remember your past selves? Are you awake reading this text right now? Or is your self simply part of a dream? If an alarm clock went off, who responds? The image in the mirror, or your self? The self you can't remember yesterday?
Madness is no laughing matter; fair game for those who survive their insanity; they break through the dark side of the mirror; they can laugh at their own fragmented self as a collection of memories lost; time creates moments, moments disappear; the past becomes aware in the present; the future never arrives but lies still along the horizon, sunrise, sunset, illusions of misguided perceptions; we believe what we see is real, we trust in our own sensations not to deceive our ability to discern the real; but then we believe in insensible objects that cannot be proven as real; like a black hole, or God, we live in faith; what does it mean to imagine the real as something that cannot leave impressions; how do we let the imaginary remain in faith in order to have faith; for to have faith in the real leaves us mad; insanity, a stomping ground for fools; pundits, jurists, ethicists and judges, all believe they know what cannot be known; the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth; truth becomes a language game for lions and antelopes hungry for a quick bite; in terms of survival, who needs the truth; humans in the desert dying of thirst; an oasis cannot be a mirage; a mirage may look like an oasis; sand is not water, water is not sand; try not to quench your thirst on pools of sand, no matter how satisfying they seem; you will die in this desert unable to discern a mirage from your desire; the desire to exist is greater than pools of light and shadow have to deceive; what is the point when we lose our senses; the mad are insane when others tell them; they become weak in spirit, like children, malleable as bars of gold melted in a crucible, or a potato; alcoholism is a defiant illness for all parties involved, knowing or unwittingly fooled from before birth; alcoholism may seem like madness, especially for non-alcoholics; this is the stomping grounds for fools, in faith, they know not what they know is true as true; we walk into the all-consuming light, blindly, until the veil lifts from our eyes; like a bride at the altar, we see truth; the surface and backside of the mirror simultaneously, all memories unfold to employ like a Chinese fan; to overcome madness, we must embrace a fearless struggle against deception; fool me once, your fault, fool me twice, my fault.
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