To speak of the end of my madness is to speak of a time when I would not be made to reflect upon a time of the ruling madness of men. Oh what it would be to be sane, I know it would be an average life… to know a table as a table and not the mediator of chairs, to know salt as salt and as the rival cousin of pepper; to know man as man and not as the pillars and columns I see and to look upon a mountain and allow it to just be a mountain is to know sanity and to know the end.
I once saw a man who was a scholar of all language. He would speak beautiful words, talking of the love he had for all that came from his mouth. He was considered the greatest storyteller of all time conjuring up the most wonderful of images in the minds of all who loved him for it. As time went by he saw more and more people using the words he had once spoken but not in accordance with the meaning he used previously. He grew worried, and settled upon the idea that he would conserve the gift he had been given by speaking less than before there by addressing the balance. As others poke more and more he spoke less and less. Profanity grew in the common language and the meanings of words were diluted like a spoon full of honey in the great oceans. He as the only one who noticed the danger of what was being faced, and the only one who treasured what diction he had left. From that point he never spoke again and the world could do nothing but dream of the stories he would never share. Many years later the men of the world began to realise that the language of the world was missing something and began to search for an answer to their loss. They went looking for the man who had once spoke in beautiful prose to ask him to speak again. After months of searching they found him alone and sat on the cold stone steps of a library and asked him to teach them, once again, the value of words. Alas he had not spoken for so long he could not understand what the men were asking. He had forgotten how to speak and had forgotten the very essence of who he was. He looked back at them with the most vacant of stares as if they were very far away and could not be comprehended. He then closed his eyes, and in that same moment he passed away into the clouds, and the sky, and night.
I once saw a man who was a scholar of all language. He would speak beautiful words, talking of the love he had for all that came from his mouth. He was considered the greatest storyteller of all time conjuring up the most wonderful of images in the minds of all who loved him for it. As time went by he saw more and more people using the words he had once spoken but not in accordance with the meaning he used previously. He grew worried, and settled upon the idea that he would conserve the gift he had been given by speaking less than before there by addressing the balance. As others poke more and more he spoke less and less. Profanity grew in the common language and the meanings of words were diluted like a spoon full of honey in the great oceans. He as the only one who noticed the danger of what was being faced, and the only one who treasured what diction he had left. From that point he never spoke again and the world could do nothing but dream of the stories he would never share. Many years later the men of the world began to realise that the language of the world was missing something and began to search for an answer to their loss. They went looking for the man who had once spoke in beautiful prose to ask him to speak again. After months of searching they found him alone and sat on the cold stone steps of a library and asked him to teach them, once again, the value of words. Alas he had not spoken for so long he could not understand what the men were asking. He had forgotten how to speak and had forgotten the very essence of who he was. He looked back at them with the most vacant of stares as if they were very far away and could not be comprehended. He then closed his eyes, and in that same moment he passed away into the clouds, and the sky, and night.