You know, I once read somewhere, and I might have actually posted this sometime before or told a few of you in person in any of our so very sporadic conversations, that the people with the highest amount of mental problems or those most susceptible to health concerns in the like of irreversible mania and other simple craziness are artists. Yes, artists, those who love to spend long hours in front of a large canvas with a palette of paint in their off hand and a brush in their master, stroking the blank material and adding a bit more humanity to this world.

Why? Well, my memory seems to have failed me there, because I do not have the slightest recollection of what caused this problem to manifest itself in the minds of such amazingly creative people. But one other thing I do remember is that the ones who followed closely behind artists in this ranking of most likely to be kooky were, quite interestingly, writers. More so those who wrote fiction and poetry as opposed to the less beautifully imaginative, but surely just as skilled in the fine art and the tactful craft of bending words with a pen, journalists and columnists.

Now, here is an issue that has been troubling me for the past fortnight or so. I fear that I might actually be one of these so very unfortunate individuals who have slowly, but quite certainly dissolved their minds into an insalutary state of insanity. Why do I believe so? I think that it might have to do with my sensible conscience observing my usual day. Talking airily to myself, imagining the wind stalking me, slowly failing to differentiate between my reality and true reality. And the most scary thing is that I am hapless to it all. I pause and think to myself, God I AM going mad. And the next moment I'm back to doing what you would see those who have lost their lives do. Speak to the air and dream that the world around them hasn't changed in their past seconds.

Maybe this has all got to do with how singular I've been lately. With no one to distract me from my fiction and to pull me away now and then so I can taste a bit of life. I suppose it is quite inevitable that my mind eventually beings to think that what I craft up is the world it lives in. I tried to make it difficult for that to happen by switching stories every so often, and I think it has helped in some small way. But I guess there is no stopping insanity once it beings its slow poison.

If there should be an antidote, and a cure, I believe it would be the touch of another human, and their breath on my skin with their voice chiming in my ears.