Madness is relative

The light flickers on and off in the window on the second floor of the old house down on the corner of Walnut and Elm. Either the circuit has a short, or someone's playing with the light switch. Probably nobody lives there, because if they did, the light would drive them crazy, but if nobody lives there then why is there a light on.

The light is always either on or off. It's never not on, and it's never not off. You've noticed it from your office window, as you sit at your desk in front of your computer screen, not working, the way you've found yourself not working more and more these days. The work is there, just begging you to do it, but still you find your eyes drawn out the window to the street, to the trees stripped of leaves and shivering in the brisk wind, the yellowed leaves plastered to the pavement by the cold rain that passed through three nights ago, to the parked cars up and down the street, you always notice the new cars and watch them intently to see who their owners are and from what house they come. The house on the corner, not the old house, the one across from it, seems to attract new people all the time, at all hours, like Paul's house when he was still dealing.

Your computer sits silently waiting, the work patiently on the screen, whenever you're ready, it'll be right here. It's time for more coffee, anyway, you've been sitting in this chair for at least an hour and it's time to take a break. You grab your mug and take a sip and wince at the cold coffee, swallowing quickly to keep from tasting it. There's always tomorrow. The deadline is months away. There will be tomorrows and tomorrows to come.

You take the coffee mug downstairs to the kitchen, walking quietly through the darkened house. You don't want to wake anyone, and you hiss at the cat as it chirps at you as you walk by. You keep your hands warm under your arm pits as you pace around the dim kitchen, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil, the coffee filter sitting on top of your mug. There's so much work to do, where to start, what to hit first, what do you need to tackle this part. It's so quiet in the office, it's easy to lose yourself in your thoughts. You tried playing music for a while, and got so wrapped up in correcting and editing the ID tags on your MP3s that you lost an entire week. But there are tomorrows and tomorrows to come.

It is easier to work at night. The quiet suits the night. The world contracts until it is just the office, the desk, the computer screen. Some nights your fingers slip onto the keys and start working, and next thing you know it's almost dawn. It's happened, but it has been happening less often than before. Dawn keeps creeping up sooner and sooner than you anticipate. And once the morning comes, the whole cycle will start all over again. You will get bounced back further and further, until the work seems like a distant memory as you slog your way through the quotidian minutia of your day. It doesn't really matter what you had for lunch, or if you had lunch at all. You're only partly there, listening to the conversation and chiming in opportune moments. Your mind is on the work. Your body is at lunch and is having a pleasant time with it, your friends and family are smiling at you as they speak with you, but you catch their eyes and you know what they are thinking, what they are wondering, what they believe is happening.

Madness is relative, you told a friend once. He didn't believe you, but that wasn't the point. The declaration was more for yourself than for anyone who could hear it. Live with madness long enough and it becomes like a nicely worn pair of denim pants, really fit only for their owner. It becomes a constant in a world of randoms. People worry about when the depression hits, but the depression is somewhat comforting in its way. The depression is a known quantity, an old and overly familiar friend who invites his way into your house then proceeds to stay for six weeks. The depression has been happening for so long that you can't even remember what it was like before it started showing up at your door, looking in people's eyes for too long and making awkward conversation at theatre opening nights.

Now, it's the normal that's strange, the unknown, the terrifying. You pull yourself out of the darkness by convincing yourself that the awful things your brain keeps whispering about you into your ears at night is not true. People do like you. You are interesting. You can carry on a conversation. You are not odd. But then you are out there, taking a walk in the wide, wide world and suddenly this is put to the test. Are you wierd? Are you awkward? This interaction with this clerk at the grocery store will put this to the test, and it all depends on how strong your ribs are that day, that you can take the blows that are coming at you without faltering and falling to your knees, once again to the comforting darkness.