When God wants to punish you, He makes you a mad man.

Today someone said to me,

"When God wants to punish you, He makes you a mad man." Words that are way too familiar, but this time round, it felt like he held a mirror right before me. I pushed this line at the back of my mind months ago. Too afraid to confront my own truth, my madness. Maybe too quick to dismiss it as careless placement of words. My existence has been particularly heavy of me. A weight that has been getting heavier by the day. It has settled so well in me, even rested in my bones. It shows up quietly, in the empty gaze of my eyes, or emptiness of my face. It chokes me when I'm speaking, and hold my lungs hostage when I try to breath. My madness is not frantic. It's polite; even civil. It demands order. It's me nodding at people, the "I'm fines", finishing up my tasks on time, drawing up to-do-lists, making a meal-plan, submitting to a feigned performance. My madness is this stupid functionality that has sucked the soul out of me. 

I used to live in worlds that only I knew about. I had an imagination that was so big it consumed me. My worlds were made of color and words. Words, sentences,  stories. Words used to compete at the edge of my tongue on which to go first when I talked about myself. I wrote stories on books, screens, pages, even walls. I talked to the sky and told the wind my secrets. I was whimsical with my language and my world was mine. I saw magic in sunrises, the way the light of daybreak hit my curtains. I saw poetry in lovers and magic when two people kissed while drunk. I painted universes that only I knew about. I loved butterflies and birds alike. My existence felt as light as the wind. Between the color orange and yellow I asked of both of them to compete  for my attention. And they showed off in my insane adoration for sunflowers, sunrises, sunsets, marigolds, birds of the air, autumn leaves, cozy sweaters, tangerines,  pumpkin soup, lantern lights and the hue of my youth before it was bruised. 

I used to wake up loud and curious. Hitting my best friends with pillows on their heads when they were half asleep. By day break I'd have discovered that I loved jazz and that I could not play the violin (still can't). My imagination made up for my anxiety and my fear. I used to think about all the ways that I could pocket joy before I left my bed in the morning. My days were always a fresh wonder of curiosity. A new friend today, a new song tomorrow, a new recipe the other day. Now I wake up exhausted. And in my head, I plan about how I will survive my day. "Today I will not shout at my juniors, I need to get more coffee,  I can't hang out after work, those emails have to be sent today,  my outfit is not so corporate."

Along the way, I traded all my wealth for routine,

All my curiosity for stupid caution,

All the magic I had, for logic,

The ability to feel, for the ability to cope,

I replaced holy love with careless lust.

I ignored the loudest, most authentic parts of me even when they pulled at my sleeves asking me to lay on the ground and stare at the clouds for just one more day. Even when they asked me to laugh for no reason. Even when those parts of me asked me to live again, for even a day. 

But how can I? How can I be all those things, when I still have to scroll through tiktok until I can fall asleep? Listen to the opinions of 100 different strangers on the other side of the screen? Mistake connection for superficial streaks of three different apps? How can I while emails have to be sent? How do I even laugh for no reason while even a giggle in a meeting is "too juvenile for the setting"? Not while I still have to go to the gym, eat healthy, climb imaginary ladders and set my own expectations higher than I can get in one lifetime. 

Along the way, I did silence my own voice. I had to look for these very words I wrote down here from the deepest parts of my mind since they do not exist on the surface anymore. I silenced the girl who used to run barefoot in wet grass, to be superficially responsible,  respectable, predictable and tired. And this right here is my madness. Losing touch with my own soul, that is my punishment. My insanity is not a huge break from my reality. No. It's a slow death in me of all the things that I love about myself. And immediately filling those gaps with schedules and the misery of the fast world. I see it happening everyday. I see my own wonder disappear day by day. I watch myself grip hard to mediocre pictures of a beautiful sunset, or a random rainbow. I see adventure stuck somewhere in my past, like a long gone friend. And joy, I have learnt to schedule a few weeks in a year where I convince myself that I am experiencing joy. 

My madness is an excruciating slow burn. But is it punishment or stubbornness? I believe it is both of these things. I am punished with the deep knowing that maybe this is not who I am. Yet, I appreciate that my soul is stubborn enough to remind me to dream and live truly. I see too clearly what happens when I betray my abilities and my authenticity. I feel my own self breaking at the walls of my chest, to open up before I can suffocate in my own misery. Sometimes it's a whisper, begging me to write, orate, paint, devote to myself. Sometimes it's a nagging rebellion that shows up in anger. I am angry at myself for drowning in superficial responsibilities. 

"When God wants to punish you, He makes you a mad man" I stare at this very sentence plastered at the first page of my journal. And I go on to write," Indecision has consequences, just like choices do. Today I will no longer worship indecision. It's disgusting to stand in line waiting for things that drive me to the edge. Today I will choose to remember my world before I switched off my own light. And as the memories come, I will soak in them until they remind me who I really am. Today I will choose to let myself linger longer with my questions, rather than my distractions. Today I will choose to let this madness, however, creepy, quiet, and cruel it is, call me back to my own sanity."