When one of us dies of cancer, loses her mind, or commits suicide, we must not blame her for her inability to survive an ongoing political mechanism bent on the destruction of that human being. Sanity remains defined simply by the ability to cope with insane conditions.
Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.
Melancholy had crept inside me. Small children made me cry, I got depressed eating meat, old book bindings awakened tenderness in me. Everything was disintegrating. Nothing stood the test of time, including me. Somewhere on the other shore were madness and God, sometimes both wearing a beard. Neither instilled much confidence.
Are psychiatric crises so overwhelming to the mind that they inhibit the presence of ethics? Is depression at root an amoral phenomenon, its focus on the self preventing any other from really counting? Perhaps. Sometimes. Sometimes, even when we are two we are really only one; we can feel nothing but our own bones, our own difficult breaths.
Maybe I'm needy, neurotic, paranoid. Under the circumstances, of course, if I weren't needy, neurotic, and paranoid, I'd obviously be psychotic.
One trembles to think of that mysterious thing in the soul, which seems to acknowledge no human jurisdiction, but in spite of the individual's own innocence self, will still dream horrid dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts.
There is a diabolical streak in me, a troublesome and inexplicable perversity.
It is important to remember that at first blush, going sane feels just like going crazy.
It's good to know that if I behave strangely enough, society will take full responsibility for me.
Perhaps God is not dead; perhaps God himself is mad.
Maybe I'm a bit of a psycho-but I'd rather be psycho than boring.
... he preferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. He rejoiced in his own madness, he was free. He did not want that old sanity of the world, which was become so repulsive. He rejoiced in the new-found world of his madness. It was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying.
... now I was safe, now I was really crazy, and nobody could take me out of there.
A time will come, and soon, when, from mere habit, you will echo the scream of every delirious wretch that harbors near you; then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing head, and listen with horrible anxiety whether the scream proceeded from you or them.
My mind was bursting with depression and anguish. I muttered imprecations and murmuring as I passed along. I was full of loathing and abhorrence of life, and all that life carries in its train.
Those who try to "break on through to the other side" not only cannot predict what they may find there, but are themselves too often broken in the process.
And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did.
The soul is innocent and immortal, it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse.
Madness is a kind of mental suicide.
A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand over the demon's mouth sometimes and speaks for him. And the things the young man says are very rarely poetry.
Too long, the earth has been a madhouse!
We swung between madness and suicide ... it was beautiful!
Some of my earlier songs are kind of more about mental illness.
I had developed manic depression [bipolar disorder] ... and the main symptoms the constant voice in the head telling you to kill yourself.
I think people don't understand how intimately tied suicide is to mental illness, particularly to depressive illness and bipolar illness.
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