The points along which one can afford a moment of peace, in which one can be allowed effortlessly the consciousness to stream of its unabashed accord are few in the world, in this peopled and so noisy environment called Society. First, so little, and therefore precious daylight in which to let wander the mind upon creative journeys is so fleeting, and then to have to battle in those so few, precious hours noise and conceit of the ever invasive environment, throws one’s mind into a spiraling whirlwind of uncontrollable madness. And this every day. One never knows when next the “moment thief” will strike, stealing away one’s potentials without remorse, like a serial killer. For how can he have remorse, when the thief knows not what he does? He, blissedly ignorant of his crimes, feels no pity; nay, feels nothing for his act. This is not egocentricity or even egotistical, this is only the soft embrace of blissful ignorance.
How many of those who know intimately of the throes of existential madness have not wished for the bliss of ignorance? How many have not wished our minds were not SO full of ‘thoughts’? Our awareness quite AS acute? Our consciousness as sensitive? Would we not give almost anything (hell, our very otherwise cherished lives) for a moment of some semblance of peace? Do we not lament peace of mind? Do we not bemoan tranquility? Yet, unlike the thief, we know and cannot help from becoming insane after he has gone and left only the knowing of his commitment in his wake, for us to bear. We bear the burden of the blissfully ignorant, the neurotypicals. We carry the sentence and consequence of their crimes.
I can comprehend why and how Gerald, the schizophrenic, could believe that others were meaning to kill him. I can empathize and sympathize with his fear of people and the unstoppable, unceasing terror of purposeless, meaningless ignorant destruction they rain upon him. I feel it every day. In every moment waits the possibility that it will be taken, so must not one conclude that it was never meant to be had? That great forces were at work to dangle peace of mind like some kind of psychic carrot? For some, I suppose, peace never comes, for others peace is always known; for me, it is like a ghost, the merest, minutest glimmers of oases. Too much like an illusion, too close to “never really being there.” A daydream conjured to perfection. So, does one actually suffer loss? If one never perceived or experienced? The only solace is the morrow and that perhaps day light will provide another chance, but, too the conscientious terror of its fulfillment, and again the thief wearing a new face.