The
following is an
excerpt from the
collected writings of a
famous schizophrenic who wished to remain
anonymous.
Should I be sorry, I sometimes
wonder, about not being
sane? Should I feel some sort of
regret, that I missed the
opportunity to experience the world as,
perhaps, man was meant to
experience it? As I
sit here, feeling very
among the trees even though I'm on my
veranda, I wonder if the
view is better to a
sane man.
Even so, I myself often wonder if there
exists such an entity as the "sane man". Perhaps "sane" is
merely an ideal to which we bow, like to
so many other ideals.
Peace.
Justice.
Freedom.
Sanity? Of course, we treat sanity as something we are all born with
one hundred percent, as though those of us
markedly without it somehow ended up
short--either by a small amount, in the case of the
neurotic, or by a large amount, a
yawning chasm of
insanity eating up the space where our
sanity should be--er, in the case of me.
Sometimes I even try to
pretend, try to
imagine, if you will, what my
particular situation might look like,
were I sane. I wonder if the
colors would seem different, if the
voices of the others might not sound
so cold, if perhaps a particular
chemical in my brain had not developed just
so. Or
perhaps it would not be so
esoteric a change; there is the
chance that my
state is actually what they say it is: Something "
wrong". Something that
misinterprets, that
fouls up the otherwise-obvious
equations of
Reality. So also,
perhaps the world would simply be not at all what I, in my
insanity, could ever see it as. Perhaps my
aunt Maureen over in the corner is, in the
eyes of the Right, a
coatrack. And I, a
victim of
mechanical error, am forever
forbidden from seeing, from
knowing, the coatrack.
I must
conclude for now, but
rest assured that I shall
foul these pages with ink once again; it is my
plight to do so, and my only
relief. For these few
moments I am able to
communicate with what is increasinly an "
outside world" to me, something that I cannot
feel the proper
connection with anymore. It
lacks the
sting of Life, I know; it is a
sterile and
useless process; a mere
terminus to something that
ended a long time ago. Until the
next time, then.
Bless
this Life, Yours and Mine,
NAME WITHELD
submitted as an
anonymous favor by the
Internet entity known as
PureDoxyk.