One Hundred and Thirty One

Insanity hasn’t become the norm. It’s always been the norm. We know that when we’re children. Growing up means forgetting what we know, and pretending to believe what everyone else pretends to believe.

I used to play that game. I think I played it well because I didn’t take it seriously. I took nothing seriously, because I knew life is only a game, an illusion.

I was wrong not to take it seriously, because illusion is all we have. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. We don’t wake to reality. We die.

I’ve always been immersed in depression by this knowledge, as fish are immersed in water or other people are immersed in illusion. From time to time I rise above it, as fish leap out of water or other people experience enlightenment; but reality is not our natural element.

We call ourselves homo sapiens, but we’re the most ignorant of animals. Other animals don’t delude themselves, as we do, that they’re more than animals.

Instead of killing myself out of despair, I’ve stayed alive because I hoped I'd eventually understand why the world is as it is, and be able help others. But now I’ve accepted that I’m as capable of understanding the world as a flea is capable of understanding calculus, and I no longer want to kill myself because a flea doesn't seem worth making the effort needed to end its suffering. If I respected all life, as I know I should, I’d kill myself.