“It must be madness, the way we let things devour us.” – R.M. Drake

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A little mad, aren’t we all? Aren’t we all in search of something? Aren’t we desperate for it? Don’t we all have something to live for, and something to die for?

How does it feel to be surrounded by madness? How does it feel to drown in a pool of lunacy? How does it feel to taste the bittersweet taste of heartbreak? How is it like to be addicted to the idea of being broken? How does it feel to falter on the brink of sanity? How does it feel to not know anything?

We all are a little mad, aren’t we? Aren’t we all a little drunk in loneliness, trying to wipe off the vestiges of our painful scars, trying to heal the salted wounds? How do we know the good from bad, the right from wrong, the sane from insane? How do we know who we are?

Mad, that’s what we are, aren’t we? Afterall, what would you call the girl with seventeen lines on her wrist, or the boy who pukes blood every night? What would you call the neighbourhood watchman who dreams of his daughter becoming a doctor, or your best friend who dreams of getting married to her favourite actor? If it is not madness, then what is it, all those unread aphthongs and undelivered mails? What would you call your half-baked love?

The way the world closes in on us, is just a little more than madness. The way we let swords cut through, words pierce through and touches break us, what is it but madness? We all are a little mad, from the anger building up in our nostrils to the clenched fists, from the little longer look in the mirror, to the favourite shade of nail paint, from the favourite album of that particular band to the character of a novel who never dies for us, we all are a little mad, and I think we like it.

We all like to be a little mad.

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