Edgar Allan Poe, in his short story "The Tell-Tale Heart", says of madness, "the disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them."
Today, I am mad. I am open and vulnerable and I have no clue what to do about it. Today I needed to be safe. When it looked like my place of work might be out of action for the day, I prayed for everything to be operational as normal. Why? Because so long as I have a purpose, so long as I have to be in a fixed place at a fixed time, I can't get me. Do these sound like the words and thoughts of a madwoman? Today, I regret that they are.
Poe's madman claims, "I heard some things in the heavens, I heard many things in hell", and the identification with this worries me. It's been said that quirkiness in a person is endearing, but when does endearment end and real insanity begin? Endearing or not, my quirks sometimes strangle me and I suddenly run out of ideas.
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