“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ~Fredrick Nietzsche
What is madness, but a notion of an unsound mind which knows not the realness of things? Which hears not the words falling from the lips but rather the music slipping from the throat, and feels not with hands but with the heart and soul? What is it to be insane- or to be thought insane by those who only think differently? Is it a state of mind? A way of life? By thinking too much, feeling too much, being too much… are we truly mad?
Was Edgar Allen Poe insane, or merely a man who felt more passionately, who experienced life more fully, than those around him who were supposedly sane? What then, is sanity? A trembling state of normalcy? A vow not to feel as one can feel and not to do as one has the potential to do?
I try to find something beautiful in every day. I truly believe, deep down, that good people exist. I still read fairytales. I like to walk in the rain because it makes me feel alive. I write handwritten letters. I love recklessly and unconditionally. There is no greater happiness in the world for me than in a freshly sharpened pencil and a warm cup of tea. Sometimes when I feel sad, I take a book off my shelf, softly run my fingers across the pages and breathe in that old parchment smell. I think the real tragedy of life is to give up on the one you want in order to settle for the one that does not give you every happiness you deserve.
Am I insane?
Am I mad for having faith in a future that can be better than the present moment? For thinking that life is a beautiful thing, no matter how cruel and cold and heartless the world can sometimes seem? For believing that magic exists and can be found everywhere, because I have felt it and I have breathed it and I have lived it? For being unwilling to settle, because my soul longs to reach the four corners of the earth and touch as many people as it can? For scribbling down words that might not ever reach those who need them the most? Am I insane?
I think too much, and I feel too much. I am too much shoved into a person- a person trying to live too much, to write too much, to love too much. What is too much? Who defines too much? Can someone be too happy? Too miserable? Where is the line drawn? How much exactly can a person take before they start flowing over? If conforming to a certain standard is the sign of a balanced mind, then I don’t want to be balanced.
We are insane, but the way we see the world is more real than the way others see it. Where they see lines, we see all that fills them. We are the ones who rise above the slaves of the ordinary and scrape the sky with our trembling fingers. We are the people who refuse to believe in ‘impossible’, who dance away from the crowd to the silent music that comes from our hearts alone.
We are the ones who live. And living, after all, is an act of pure madness.
Which I guess means that we’re all a little bit mad, aren’t we?