Moments of Sanity

People, like fingerprints, are quite unique when it comes to choosing the ideals that they follow or live by. When you explore the various passions that inspire people, you’ll realize that everyone has their own special place which they believes is free from any external intervention, where they can cast aside all burdens and inhibitions and rest without any concern or worry. Or at least with lesser concern and worry than usual. It is this place that gives us the strength and confidence to face the world and is pivotal to successful living. This ‘place’ could be anything, varying from a deep founded belief in the ultimate good nature of men, to a skeptical disregard for humanity, morality and generally any other ‘ity’. My safe place used to be the confines of my own head, an unwavering confidence in my ability to think things out, and an unshakable belief in my own thoughts and decisions. This is an intensely personal tenet; central to everything I do, deeply ingrained in every aspect of my life. If you were to say that it is as important to me as my living breath, you wouldn't be guilty of any exaggeration. If such an integral and private space is suddenly invaded, when your own thoughts seem alien to you and you can no longer bank upon your judgments, it feels like your whole world has been shattered and in its place is now an endless maze ending in empty rooms with no windows and no way out. Memories elude your grasp just as you almost reach them, interest crumbles away midway through everything, and you sink deeper and deeper into this endless pit of melancholy despair. The entire stack of blocks that you built on this foundation comes crashing down as you watch helplessly, hoping that it will end someday, when you can pick up all the broken pieces and rebuild yourself, but you don’t know if and when this will happen. The night sweats, fever, chills and irritability don’t help either; and things look even more bleak when you can find no enthusiasm for the resurrection, no inspiration for the recovery and things look more lost beyond redemption the closer you look at them.

Layers upon layers, all the way down the abyss
Whirling beyond the depths that any mind can hold;
Like the ever elusive borders of Infinity, ah bliss,
The key to all the secrets of life untold.

Each is a myth conjured to give false comfort
A white lie shielding you from the bleak truth,
Ever so gently, it is weaved into the illusion,
It faintly ripples, sending out waves of discord
But these quickly fade and the fabric turns smooth
The mask slips in place again, the dream goes on.

Opinions are always born out of discord,
For order to exist there needs to be chaos.

Every mask in all its flexibility is still rigid
Within what is fixed, there still exists,
Some degree of freedom, for underneath
Is another mask, more room for retreat.

The eye thinks it sees all,
It is blind, for to see at all,
It always needs a limitation
There is more to scope than mere definition.

Without some prejudice, there can be no opinion
Under all theories rests an axiom at the foundation.

The masks are stripped away, to reveal the absolute.

What’s it that I see?
Tabula rasa, in my brief moments of sanity.

As its ghostly green surface gleamed at him, he turned it around in his hand, the glass reflecting the dim light of the bathroom with a sort of eerie brilliance casting hulking shadows on the tiled walls, cruelly distorted by his morbid imagination, giving them an almost alien sense of reality. Perhaps in the deeper reaches of his now nearly non functioning rationale there was a lone, weak voice protesting the absurdity of his imagination, but if this voice was speaking at all, it was almost completely drowned out by the thunderous roars of opposition of what it pleases the pseudo intellectuals and naive addicts to call his heightened senses, unfettered by the chains of reason and other such paltry inhibitions that so surely blight the fancies and creativity of those uninitiated in these strange rites.

Not everyone has a pet hobby. For some people, life lacks any major purpose; where then will you find any room for hobbies? But if anything could come close to a favorite hobby, something that keeps you occupied in those lonely hours of boredom and acts as a soothing balm to the sore aches of his soul it was this. Almost considered a rite of passage among these things, it was this act that marked his turning pro, leaving the world of unenlightened amateurs forever behind, marching on proudly into a brave, new world. Of course for the ignorant, it might be seen as a mere act of physical disinfection. A worthy of act of sanitization, I’m sure, but not really the kind of stuff that you’d think about twice otherwise. For instance, you wouldn’t really expect to find the answers to the secrets of the universe in this necessary and commendable, but otherwise entirely unremarkable act of daily ablutions. This lack of deeper interest in the process is akin to a genetic defect, a kind of mass temporary amnesia, an inability of the brain, not to form memories, but to comprehend the genius that is so evident to the discerning eye. Blinded as it is by this inherited myopia, the hands scrub and the eye wanders impatiently, and the mind completely disregards the implications of this deeply spiritual deed of cleansing.

However, Time, as you can expect only Time to in situations like this, pervades all, breaking all boundaries of permanence in its usual all-conquering way. Showcasing its infinite suppleness, its ability to adapt to almost any change, desirable or otherwise, the human mind not only accepts what is beyond its power to change, but embraces this change, putting it on the same high pedestal that it generally keeps reserved for special treats. It now becomes a matter of acquired taste, that most strange of all human emotions who’s even most modest and uncomplicated member is convoluted beyond comprehension and impossible to unravel. But what fascinated him so much about the entire ritual wasn’t so much a product of evolutionary improvisation but a joy so pure and complete that it couldn’t have come but from whole, unadulterated understanding.

Human beings are fanciful creatures, full of odd quirks that defy rationalization. Just as the car enthusiast lovingly wipes the grease off his favorite old engine, and spends hours poring over the bonnet, so does he approach the task at hand, with all his heart and soul. It is as ludicrous for him to consider it an unrewarding chore as it is to suggest to a master craftsman that keeping his tools ready and honed is an onerous task, arduous and embarked upon only with the utmost unwillingness. With the careful strokes of the artist’s brush on the fabric, he was intimately acquainted with its every inch, having dabbed every curve with methanol until its original green sheen glared through the sludge. It is in this detailed understanding that he finds bliss, for in his mind’s eye, as he cleans it, he does not see the dirt washing down into the drain, but the clear white smoke rushing up through its long neck, a long gush of purity and exhilaration, perhaps vaguely like the exhaust from a superbly tuned engine in the eyes of a racing fanatic. And at that moment of communion, he feels the all surpassing contentment of the true adept, a taste that is purely natural and can never be acquired.

As the stream of water finally receded down to a trickle and then ceased altogether, he walked over to the basin, and reached over the mirror. His eyes caught a glimpse of a face and he found himself staring at his fluid reflection. Ever so slightly it seemed to ripple, ending out small waves of discord. However the effect was momentary, a fleeting impression barely lasted for a second before that quickly faded. The fabric turned smooth again. A momentary lapse of reason, perhaps, whispered that almost forgotten voice. The mask slipped back in place, the dream went on, and suddenly he was aware that his groping hands couldn’t find what they were looking for.

“There is no bloody refill here again!”