MADNESS

Oh, they say I am mad, when all they know is I have visions - no, illusions, of better days. They say I am a drunk or maybe I am unwell. But whatever the reason, they say I am mad. But no. Time, time, time will tick, the reeds on the hill will continue to sway and my life will remain a mere fever dream, unwanted, an omen of the disease. Am I the disease?

No. No. No. I am not mad, I am not. No, I am not ailed, nor am I a victim of past trauma. No, my wife she still lives; from my parents I was spoiled, and yet I suppose I am mad, perhaps I am intoxicated, drunk on a future in which man is free. Drunk on a future in which I am free, in which I could, would, appreciate the rainforest fauna lush with life and all elegance. I would value the celestial summits at their peaks, watching over humanity below. I would cherish the cascades of the waterfall and its whimsical willows entangling the crystal cliff in a tight embrace. And it is our own decision to live this life. A life of waking to the sound of grid-locked traffic driven by automated machines posing as people. Wake. Work. Wait. Wake Work Wait. This is the choice of man but one day it will not be mine. And maybe that is why they say I am mad. Because I want more. No, no. I do not want to continue this way, I want to leave the smog behind for the enchanted moors thickened with mist. I want to be left to the serenity that comes from an escape away from what has become an expectation of life. But that is not a life I want to live. And if that makes me mad then so be it. Because what I truly want is freedom. My madness isn’t madness. It’s hope.

Catherine Hill