Is my behavior so abnormal—my perspective so distorted—that I must be mad?
You declare my motions strange, my thoughts perverted.
Are my eyes so full of fire that you start and shy away?
Call off your witch hunt; that which frightens you so is false.
Tis but a sunspot on the surface of my mind.
If so little light offends you,
Then stay in your dim world, shaded by the backsides of giants.
You think the sun’s light pleasant until it scorches your soft, pink flesh
And then rush to hide your sores in the dark of your heart.
But I tell you, this corner of sunlight is claimed for me and mine.
Is that it then? Do I blaze too hot and too close for comfort?
Good! Leave comfort to the dead!
While my blood flows hot and quick, I dare not sleep.
***
Why do you approach me in such a manner?
You creep toward me and around me, whispering empty praise
As if I, sleeping dragon, may be placated by such lullabies.
Think you not that my wit and will are so soft as they would be shaped by your conniving pressures.
“By and by” is easily said, and crueler things easier still.
Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Yes?
By th’ Mass, you are a liar!
It is neither very like a weasel nor a whale, but for that you hear me say that it is so.
All you hear are words, words, words—and none of the meaning behind them.
My purpose, though brilliant, is cloaked in my madness.
Yet I would wager my stolen kingdom that I am not half as mad as you;
For while I play the fool, you fool yourself to think you my physician and arbiter.
I still remember that I wear a mask, and may discard it when it pleases me.
But your hideous caricature, you pitiful watchdog of a hellbound king, is forever affixed.
Oh, that you were so translucent as your platitudes and plans!
You could lurk behind curtains and mirrors, like a ghost, to your heart’s content and plague me no more.
I’ve no use for your scheming, seeming obsequity.
***
Yet still I wonder—
Why do you seek to capture my essence like so many fireflies in a jar, like so much dust in a sieve?
When you have it, what will you do with it?
Will you play upon my stops and change my tune to follow yours?
What good is Samson sheared?
Your quest of mastery, to bend my mind to the inclination of yours, is futile.
Though you may hold me up to the light, or divide extremity from core,
You will learn nothing of my true thoughts and feelings,
And I will have my way, regardless of your ordinance.
A voice more compelling than your droning tones calls me to action.
And such a mean instrument as you cannot turn and play upon its player!
You, sir, have fooled me to the top of my bent!
Thus I do warn you, as one does when handing a child a knife,
To regard me carefully, as my edge is apt to slip
And sever you from this excuse of a life.
Do not provoke me sir!
I am just as much a devil as an angel, and my judgment comes by and by.