A Bad Seed

There comes a point when traveling through the garden of the mind, when one is taken aback at the discovery of a rogue. Something so bizarre, that one will quickly loose site of everything around him. His mind is no longer a garden, but one potted plant, sitting in the dark with only his conscious light illuminating.

In finding myself staring at such a similar potted plant, I was no longer tending to all the prim and proper activities that had, up till then, been my routine of adult maintenance. No, for if what this new planted thought - one which was not intentionally planted myself - was implying were true, then there was no point in my other needs. It seemed to make no sense at all, but complete sense at once. A paradoxical weed that could be seen with such a clear lucidity that I recoiled in horror before its image could be captured with words. A debilitating thought trap that could only be escaped with an amputation; by the irreversible cut of psychosis. Out of self preservation, I reached for any infliction to jar the consciousness away. This works to a degree, but makes a mess of the reality around you. When those meat-hooks set in, you have snap out of it quickly, or else be torn apart by horses. The steed of social norms on one side, and that of personal health on the other. I needed help.

What could be explained or conveyed to my more traditionally educated friends, conjured up references to books and authors and ideas, who rang little familiarity. Names I had a phonetical history with, but nothing more. It was then that a good, and well read, friend of mine gave me a little book. He warned me just how thick this book was, despite its modest size. It would not be an easy read. But the similarities of that rogue thought, and those which could be found in this book, may be of some use he assured me.

It was then that a man by the name of Camus gave a name to this rogue; the Absurd. It was in fact not a rogue at all, but a rather common and eternal weed. Overlooked by most, but known for besieging even the most respected minds of their time. This provided only a marginal comfort to me at first. After what is now going on eight months of mental mending to the rest of the garden I left in disrepair, it seems all these books have become my new distraction. For you see, even Camus himself cannot remove this weed. It's always there, right around the corner of my eye. Just on the edge of my peripherals. Not daring to turn my back on it, but directly avoiding it like the high noon sun.

I've seen it once. I'm sure of it. Deep inside the realm of sleep. I have no recollection of anything that lead up to it. Just that split second dropping of the soul as one pulls their foot off a land mine. The only visual I have is that blinding full spectrum, akin to direct sunlight. Wrapping my mind fully around the Absurd, became it.

The adrenal gland, following orders from the natural processes, roused me back to reality. Back to keeping it in the corner of my eye.