[TM] 224: Mad
Apr. 11th, 2008 09:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changehistoryIt's not a question of if, he thinks, nor even one of "when." It's not a question at all, not anymore. It might have been, at one point, up for debate. His plans, his thoughts, his questionable tactics. They all had the epithet thrown at him, hurled into his face with horror and derision both by children who knew no better. He would have said, then, that he was the only one of them not mad, the only one with the clarity of vision needed to do what must be done. But from their oh-so-limited viewpoints, that had pushed him into an inhuman insanity that slipped out of the cracks of his psyche until he could no longer truly be like them. That much, at least, was true. Part of them, one of them, yet always set apart solely by that gap of agelessness that clung to his cells, but showed mostly in his eyes. What he had seen, they could not imagine, not truly. It was words on a page to them, distorted by time and the imposed viewpoint of those that shape the past into the vision they wanted it to bed. He was there; he knew. And he knew that most people didn't want the truth.
Trivial, now. Unimportant to the discussion at hand. Perhaps it had always been so. Perhaps the human mind was not meant to hold the things in his, except that if it was not meant, then what was he? An evolution of body that mind had yet to catch up to? But he would have sworn, then, that it was experience that spoke, words sliding from his mouth in a cold, hard sanity that challenged the delusions that fed the others. Now, caught between pain and death that would not come and everlasting boredom, an animal in a cage with a window facing out and cameras that gave him not even the barest privacy for his most intimate needs, talking to those who came and went with less and less hope of a response, he felt the flickers of doubt enter, twisting in his gut like a frozen hand that reached inside and grabbed hold. For the first time the small thought pushed itself into his consciousness, and though some would say that asking it was the first sign that perhaps he wasn't what he feared, he dismissed that direction and felt the fear of the possible grab hold, four little words echoing around and around in his head.
Perhaps they were right.
Trivial, now. Unimportant to the discussion at hand. Perhaps it had always been so. Perhaps the human mind was not meant to hold the things in his, except that if it was not meant, then what was he? An evolution of body that mind had yet to catch up to? But he would have sworn, then, that it was experience that spoke, words sliding from his mouth in a cold, hard sanity that challenged the delusions that fed the others. Now, caught between pain and death that would not come and everlasting boredom, an animal in a cage with a window facing out and cameras that gave him not even the barest privacy for his most intimate needs, talking to those who came and went with less and less hope of a response, he felt the flickers of doubt enter, twisting in his gut like a frozen hand that reached inside and grabbed hold. For the first time the small thought pushed itself into his consciousness, and though some would say that asking it was the first sign that perhaps he wasn't what he feared, he dismissed that direction and felt the fear of the possible grab hold, four little words echoing around and around in his head.
Perhaps they were right.
