[fair warning: I used the gold-plated shovel for this one]
People oft wonder what drives men mad, to take leave of their senses, to become raving, posturing caricatures of humanity. And this simple conceit is simply banished, by the light of truth, and the dreaded knife of explanation.
Although many things are said to bring insanity, most are but excuses or narrowly applicable. Beautiful geometry can be vexatious, and early morning philosophising bewilder, but the true source of the passions that boil the brain come from nary a footstep away, from that vital organ to which all emotions are attributed, the heart.
From what but love could spring such joy, such pain? As with an infernal deal, men happily enter, and henceforth court doom with every move.
When love leaves, when passions dim, when you see your beloved find favour at another's side, your reason goes dim, and your dark gloom rises to pervade your being. And do you shun it, turn away? Nay, for there is a secret joy in tragedy, especially one's own! Such roil'd emotions move us, minding us of our spark of life, our stern opposition to the slumbering miasma of death.
Men are not thought mad, who berate themselves constantly, who torment themselves endlessly over that which may never be regain'd. For who amongst us has not cherished the special dread, the knowledge that another bright phase of youth is ended, never to return, love no more?
Our friends chide us, try to restore our mirth, but without result. Naturally, they wish to have again our cheerful mein, our lilting voice, for they too have dark devils to dispel, sadness to avoid, despair to forget. But we are mindful not of their self-serving wishes. In our common but contrary way, we do derive guilty pleasure from our personal misfortune.
No one could know our special pain, we think, in the face of a world peopled with sullen figures, each enmeshed in a drama he imagines to be all his own, unique, unparalleled.
Nature herself attends our private charade. Every dark cloud fortifies the darkness of our souls; each chill breeze a breath of waiting shadows, hunkering to pounce on the odd morsel of happiness gone astray. Not only our solemn moods does she decorate -- in the springtime of our feelings, the birds seem to sing for our particular benefit, the flowers placed especially in our path, the sun's warmth intended only to caress our faces, even the moon following us, as we tread the loamy earth at night. We allow ourselves to admit that flying, fleeting joy -- all are notified of our serene glee. And we greedily hoard each moment, giving us a bright remembrance of the wonderful world we had once inhabited, before all was doused with blackness and dolor.
John Rehwinkel