the worst part of suffering from madness isn’t the actual madness or whatever. it’s when you realize how many folks suffer from it in one form or another and it’s just so ordinary and mundane and everyone —literally everyone— is fucked up to one degree or another.
and it’s just the banality of ordinariness that’s the greatest tragedy.
and we all waste so much time and effort on carving out our own type of crazy when we are all just suffering from the disease of being born that we miss so much the incredible aspect of being corporeal by hiding until it’s over.
the sensations that only the embodied can experience: rain on our faces; sand along the arch of your foot both gritty and fine, rough and renewing; the scent of a thunder storm riding just beneath the summer breeze, bracing and tentative and full of wild abandon; a lovers touch on the small of your back, sending ripples beneath your skin as your breath catches, gently, in the hollow of your throat.
true madness lies in understanding the potential of your particular brand of madness and riding the wave to experiencing every iteration of yourself that you possibly can. don’t get lost in the fear of your melancholy get lost in its adventure.