Delusional Beauty
If I step on a land mine let it be by my own will, my own choice. Then I’ll die happy and you can safely move one step further.
You're so Art Deco, out on the floor
Shining like gun metal, cold and unsure.
The delusional carry between their ears a mind that, if able to be extracted, pulled apart, inspected by a scalpel that touches the metaphysical and still leaves intact the magic that gives them their gift, would be cherished, prized, put on display for most to admire and for the rest to aspire.
The delusional aren’t tethered to reality as it appears to all others. They exist in a realm that words fall short in describing. Logic, the here, the now, it’s not that all of this escapes them. It’s that when experiencing life the way they do, it simply gets overlooked. Their indifference to the world that most live in is nearly an insult. Some take it this way and if others weren’t blinded, they would too.
Do you stare down at every ant on the ground as you walk? If the ants, sentient to a level we can’t understand, talked among themselves, would they get sad the Gods ignore their presence?
These people are giants to man, unicorns to mules. Yet few walking in the delusional realize the perspective they have. It becomes a burden instead of gift. It becomes weight on their shoulders that not the world puts there, but it’s inhabitants. It’s the voices in their ears every day dragging them back to Earth. To say people do this out of malice is wrong. They do it to protect those sensitive enough to be delusional. It’s a caution put on by a friend in hopes you won’t destroy yourself with your own visions.
It’s a warning, told in consistent rhythm as if singing a song with a simple, iterative form: Do this 123, Do that 123, Do this 123, Do that 123. It becomes so loud it mesmerizes even the most intense daydreamers to the point they forget numbers 4-infinity are possible if only to be seen and touched by those crazy enough to venture to the unknown.
I think of immigrants in the past, before TV, before pictures, before -knowing- what you were getting into.
I think of 19th century America. I imagine how crazed a man, alive and well fed on the East coast, must be to travel into the Wild West with nothing to bank on but rumors of a new world, carried by a delusion that no matter how well things are on the Atlantic, the Pacific could be better. No promise. Only a belief.
I think of stories like Romeo and Juliet. Warnings of perceived reality in their ears, daily, from all their loved ones, they’re told of the dangers and disgust of the other family. They hear it at breakfast, at dinner. Anytime they so much as breathe the idea of what they imagine in their head, they’re met with scorn. They’re shot down without a chance of personal exploration. How mad were they to try to bring their feelings to the real world? Both die, but smiling and in love. Now imagine a different ending, where both bottle their truths and compromise with the voices.
It’s the delusional that rule the world because the delusional take the first step.
It’s the delusional that burn first because they get closest to the flame.
It’s the delusional that find the line because they weren’t afraid to look over the edge.
Yet, how delusional, how crazed, how mad can one man or woman be if they feel so ordained, so passionately pushed to see that limit for themselves, that they believe in their soul their exploration won’t end in vein?
The only delusional Human worth fearing is the one so susceptible to outside voices that they never venture into their own unknown. They become bitter. They hiss insecurity, scream wasted potential.
They’re dead the minute they let the voices land on that once to be cherished mind.
With love, and flame,
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
MADMAN
AM I THE ONLY ONE FUCKING RISKING?
