Pig King God

Insanity. That’s what I worry about. No family history except for a brother who took Art Bell too seriously. No outward indicators ever diagnosed. But internally, I understand just how thin the wires that hold everything together are. How, if plucked at the wrong time, one could produce a discordant note that would make the mechanism rip itself apart. Drugs made the line go slack, but eventually provided a tension of their own. So I keep an uncomfortable vigil on the individual parts of the machine, waiting for the moment when the wires cross and I fall out of sync with reality.

But see, what I feared was insanity. What I deep-down kinda hoped for was full-blown theatrical madness. If the insane brain is crackling static, the mind of a madman is a symphony being performed by twelve cellists performing in thirteen different time signatures. The insane go to a home and eat jello, while the mad speak prophetic nonsense and command a strength born of crazy. In the point-buy system of life, madness is the preferred idiosyncrasy of the min/maxer, because it elevates while at the same time providing a nobly tragic flaw.

Why not skip the middleman and become a madman? Well, like all other literary diseases, lunacy requires an inciting incident. To truly go mad, I'd need to lose my kingdom, or accidentally kill a loved one. I could discover the incomprehensible truth behind reality's veil and be sucked into a world disconnected from moral and natural law. But that requires the intervention of Fate or a heavy-handed narrator. You can't just go out and take the entrance exam for Stark Raving University; you need to be headhunted. But Chemical Imbalance Community College accepts admissions year-round, and has very affordable in-state tuition.

So, I fear insanity. Because if I keep writing shit like this, it can't be too far off.