It’s weird how sometimes looking at myself is painful. Not really because I find myself hideous, but more like it doesn’t feel like I’m looking at me. I don’t know how to say this without sounding insane. Maybe part of me is insane. I mean, I have every reason to be. It’s not all of me, it’s just a portion. It’s like somedays mirrors aren’t mirrors. They’re windows; windows where I see someone familiar on the other side. Someone in my memories. God, this doesn’t make much sense. Writing this makes me think of people in history. Albert Einstein who saw equations that didn’t even exist yet. Benjamin Franklin who thought he could light a room with some wire and glass. Van Gogh who painted what his mind saw and who cut off his ear to try to stop the voices in his head.
Then I think “maybe being partially insane isn’t a bad thing. Maybe that’s what it takes to change history, to change how society thinks,…..and I feel better.