I don’t quite know how
this has happened but it seems that at some point over the last few weeks I
have become sane. I don’t know if it’s been happening gradually or took place
in a flashbangwallop of a moment that for some reason I didn’t notice at the
time. Maybe my new found sanity crept up on me - slowly, slowly catchy monkey
style - and or it cornered me one day forcing me into becoming…
All of my thoughts
seem so ordinary and mundane. No longer do I have ridiculous flights of fancy
that can take me away for days. That man I pass in the street is just that: a
man and not a sewer dwelling rat person. That tiny blur that just ran behind
that plant pot was just a mouse and not a grey liveried messenger on his way to
warn Titiana that the man who lives at the bottom of the garden - the one with the ass's ears - is up and
about. That warm breeze isn’t blowing in from Tangiers with the promise of the
harem and camel rides and I can’t smell spice or the juice of blood oranges on
its waft; it’s just a wind from up the road.
Perhaps it's the rain or the referendum or America's totally crazy idea that it's okay to buy sub machine guns in supermarkets. Maybe it's the booze or the gardening. It may even be this bloody new computer; the one that seems to have a mind of its own but no bloody memory.
Perhaps it's the rain or the referendum or America's totally crazy idea that it's okay to buy sub machine guns in supermarkets. Maybe it's the booze or the gardening. It may even be this bloody new computer; the one that seems to have a mind of its own but no bloody memory.
Just where has my
imagination gone? Where has that creativity – something that has been a
blessing and a curse for all of my remembered life – taken off too? I didn’t
ask it to go. We never fell out as far as I am aware. Has it gone forever? Or
is it just taking a small vacation leaving me in this barren dessert of sanity
without the hope of an interesting thought or a passing camel to climb up on.
I want my madness
back, paranoid delusions and all. It’s not enough to only dream in my dreams. I
want my dreams all of the time – even if they are sometimes made from the stuff
of nightmare. And this is my nightmare, to think in this dull and boring way
without the excitement of my madness running and jumping from brain cell to
brain cell until my whole head is alive with ideas, until I am forced to snatch
up a pen and begin scribbling.
Could this be the end?
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