My sanity is a Rubix cube, and I was never one for maths. I’m twisting violently through any and all patterns, trying to shift the little coloured fuckers into order, but it’s not that simple, and no one can do it but me. Sure, a little white pill, therapy, day hospital, it all helps, but here I am, left with these tiles that seem to spell out my fate. I believe in free will but it’s hard when it seems to helpless. Well, free will is nothing in the face of a chemical imbalance, apparently. No, I can’t will myself into mental health, it takes time and patience and reorganizing of certain aspects of ones life.
Oh, I’m too good at playing sane, at fooling the world. I can sit and eat and not scream and shout like the rest of you. I can shower and use big words and nod my head when you expect me to, say the things sane people say, laugh at the jokes they laugh at, eat the way they eat. I can hide behind my intellect. If I let it go, you’d be terrified at what you saw. That’s part of the artists job though, yes- to remove the mask. But to do it with purpose, not to just let themselves loose. I was sitting in rehearsal today, and thought, what if I just screamed? And I could have. It would have confused everyone, including myself, but really, what if I just did, out of clinical interest? What would it do? A small act would change a lot. It’d seem unstable and out of control, when really I’d be more in control that I perhaps ever have been. It’s odd.