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I’d like to be insane. Is that crazy? Or a crazy thought? Can the idea be both?

Is the idea of insanity insane?

I’d like to stop with the questions, because I was trying to have only one, but there are so many attached, like thorns on a face, that I can’t begin to answer (or question) the first question.

“Thorns on a face” sounds crazy. The thought is crazy, but saying it is crazier than thinking it. Hearing it said sounds crazy to the listener.

Yes, I remember that that’s the answer. That insanity is defined by working out the details and performing unnatural behaviors. Everyone is berserk and wild in their minds, but actions are louder. Imagination is merely bonkers. Creativity is simply out there. Acting like its normal, however, is madness.

Now, stop there, because that doesn’t make sense. Normal is normal. Normal is on a normal curve. The bizarre, on the other hand, is unusual. Yet, to be normal and average and stuck in such a muck of cement life, day in and day out, would drive one, and everyone, nuts!

Being aware of the thick reinforced life doesn’t sound all that weird. Strange as it is, I think carving our moments into the walls of life is the average way to deal with it (the carving, not the life). We may not care for the wet fingers that’ll crust over, nor the left, dried, sharp grooves of our experiences, but what else can we do but dig?

I’d bet my skin off my muscles that overthinking my wish to lose my mind comes from knowledge I’ve accumulated over my time here. I’ve been analyzing and underplaying how much information I’ve collected for as long as I can remember. Only, now, as a practice-makes-perfect adult, have I done a number on my own wits.

The story goes: I’m an intellectual attempting to adapt to a life of irrationality. I’m working, working, working at achieving insanity the best way I know how.

The problem, because, wouldn’t I know it, goals have those pimples all over themselves, is having to qualify. I need criteria in order to pass as the outlier.

I don’t have to be dangerous. I don’t have to kill.

I need proper delusions, permanent ones, that will cloud my thinking to the point of not matching yours. I mustn’t attend to, nor attend, your realties. I must, without will or choice, disregard what I know to be right or wrong. Every day, which entails every hour and minute and second, the truth of right and wrong, the morals set by society, have and has to be lost on me.

Being out of my mind, and out of yours, cannot include hiding my version and execution of what may or may not be, by or not by me, right and/or wrong. I wouldn’t care if I’m caught doing something, anything, when insane. There is no “right.” There is no “wrong.” There is no “from” between one and the other. There are no quotation marks in life. There is no distinctions to be made.

Another question snuggles like a wasp ass into my forehead: If no one can truly not know right from wrong, which seems different to me than there being no one who cannot truly know something, then …

I sigh in disappointment. My question has become a complicated statement, and challenging the rules of grammar is no longer placing me onto a comfortable, self-satisfying leather I’d like to call home.

I’ll say, “One is conditioned at birth by a caregiver’s definition of morals.”

The innocent child’s standards are set by those who live before him/her. No intrinsic truth is available. Even if the baby were left to the wolves or apes, the wad of fat arms and legs would abide by the beasts’ morals to survive as a community. It’d get along in the same fashion as did those before it.

What if this child’s caregiver was there but differed from what we currently deem as “care?” If the child is raised to murder, rape, and steal at birth, wouldn’t the gruesome brat avoid getting caught when not obliging? Stab as a hobby. Instinctively force sex. Take and take and always take. And punishment for those who wait to strike out at others.

Or, what if this thing’s terrible daily deeds matched its social world?

Or maybe one crazy caregiver in one crazy location is sufficient.

Caregiving would mean taking care of no one. Terrible acts would provide justice. Playing out the definitions differently would change the definitions. Following through with a terrible act toward the caregiver would be ideal. Killing the provider, for example, would be the ultimate, legitimate move and the graduation toward self-actualization.

I think I’ve lost myself, my purpose, my idea, my need for insanity somewhere in my musing. I want the crazy title so I can live according to my cravings, but I shouldn’t have to consciously run through the philosophy of the thing.

I know what I’m crawling toward, the point for which I’m kneeling and grappling through acid air. I’m aware of my theory, the outcome, and I’m surer of the technical aspect of it, now, after thinking through it all, because the conclusion is this: the imaginary, molded monster of which I speak wouldn’t be considered insane if it suddenly grew a conscience and ceased with its murder, rape, and thievery in order to conform to the norms of our society. The child would be sane.

Or would popping its rotten cyst of immorality and developing a wholesome heart make the offspring insane, since it’d be going against the grain of its naturally, gruesome, formulated brain?

If the thing did as it was told and slaughtered, violated, and pillaged the nasty good people of Earth, it’d not only be revered by its trainer and elder, but it’d view that pleasant, outside world as an unreceptive, hostile threat. At every turn, chaotic happiness.

Is it a matter of numbers? Is it how many believe in a way of life that sets instinctual rules?

Does the question of insanity vs. sanity overrule innateness?

Whether we possess instincts to survive on our own or to assist our fellow human is a topic outside the realm of morals.

Isn’t that right?

What is right?”

“Hmm?” I’ve spoken aloud. Oopsy.

“I thought you said, ‘Isn’t that right?’”

“I did not say that,” I say. “You must be hearing things.”

I smile, because I’m attempting to mask. I’m being funny. My client doesn’t share the amusement of our situation.

“You did say something,” she says. “I think you said what I said you said.”

“You’re sounding a little crazy,” I joke.

“You don’t think you said anything? I heard you.”

“No reason to get upset.”
“You’re lying! Is this a test? Are you roleplaying, Dr. Knack?”

“I assure you, I know what I’ve said. What I haven’t said. Memory is very unreliable.”

I don’t remember if I said anything aloud or not, to be honest with myself. I wouldn’t lie to myself about such things, would I?
“Why are you always telling me to remember my environments and asking me to ‘play back the tape’ if memory is unreliable?”

“Maybe you’re misremembering.”

“What?!”

“I don’t mean to upset you.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“I mean to treat you.”

“Treat me how?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … to treat you by treating you.”

“You are doing this on purpose.”

“That would mean I’m making a conscious decision, which would mean I’m in my right mind.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Are you suggesting I’m insane?”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve said many things.”

“I mean, anything like that.”

“Could you repeat that?”

“I’m saying I haven’t anything like that.”

“Like what?”

“Dr. Knack, why are you acting like this?”

“Would you judge my behavior as unusual, unconventional, or unnecessary?”

“I’m leaving. I don’t like this session.”

“I won’t bill you.”

“You … you’re … Dr. Knack, you’re … crazy!”

I’ve made it. I’ve finally made it. One swoop of a hand across the dark wind, and I’ve smacked myself toward what can only be described as comfort.

THE END

Dan Jones

Author Dan Jones

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