Each man has his own madness. I have a meta-madness, a madness that feeds upon itself, each resolution embedded with the seeds of its own self destruction. I continually burn and bloom, faster than the seasons, faster than the days, and I keep wondering how long the soil will remain fertile, when it will have been too much, when I have parched it and there will be nothing left. Are my own dead bodies enough to regenerate it? Is this a closed system of birth and rebirth, a self propelling machine? Why is it necessary to feel all this pain just to understand something?
And so I sway, between wanting to live and wanting to rest, between honesty and protection, poision and milk, knowing that if I break down again, I'll come out of it needing less protection in the end, that I am slowly nearing a point where I don't have to protect myself, and wondering whether or not this won't break me for good, if I will walk away from it at all.
I have always been so obsessed with strength, of making mountains just to see if I can climb them, making fires and then walking through them. This is my neurosis; my quiet desperation is that I cannot keep quiet about it. I must groom and indulge in it, and then analyze it, bust it open, and expell it. I am the one who purges. But to purge, one is always in need of that fuel, of that desire and suffering, of that madness. Quad me nutrit me destruit.