Linguistic Bacchanalia: A Treatise on Madness

I was once wise and powerful. In a past life. Looking at the moon tonight, I came back to myself somewhat. Something about the infinite expanse of space, the feeble nature of my vision, made a little of the madness creep back into me. I would gladly die if it were to take on its role as a powerful acid and erode all barriers. I would gladly die a thousand times, consciously running from the destiny of madness with all my might, so that its overcoming was all the more all-encompassing and total. Total subversion.

This writing is a hollow shell of the glory I speak. As I came back inside, the intuition left me once again. I was feeling rather proud as I sat down and wrote, but felt doubt sink into its iron maiden next to me and begin to stroke my poisoned ego.

How many permutations of the Fool must I go through? Is the evolution of the Fool into the Saint an entirely unrewarding endeavor, void of pleasure, adventure? Madness is the route like Zen, that you can take on at any moment any day. When you do, the lakes will rise, dead things will begin whispering old recipes to you, all ancient, histrionic glamour will fade into the backdrop and your ego will step fourth naked and wraith-like, ready to receive its prize. Labored breath, tattered, sinewy, ravenous, it will pierce your whole life up to this moment with its gaze, and its aforementioned attributes of tatteriness and ravenousness are the embodied elements of its complete inability to see even a moment of context into the future. That’s why the ego is a wild animal that needs to be killed anew in every form at the unfolding of each infinitely indivisible moment.

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