Κανένα σπουδαίο μυαλό δεν υπήρξε ποτέ χωρίς μια νότα τρέλας

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

’Everyone in this forgotten town believed the way to achieve immortality was to have their names written down.

But not just by anyone.

Only the hand of a poet could determine your immortality.

Men traveled over the land, in search of a poet;

So they could boast of their fame, and good deeds.

But the poet’s paper stayed empty,

The poet spoke slow and clear, for his words were for all to hear;

“These stories do not tempt me.”

Fergus put his pen down, he looked down at the small excerpt he had written for a story. Pondering momentarily with his worn and calloused hands stroking the snowy white beard; his eyes crinkled slightly as he built a whole new world in his head. A few moments passed and he slowly picked up his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and continued on just as he was before. He wrote on and on as he drifted farther and farther from reality, from this world. Fergus was no longer a being of earth, but one of a different dimension.

A different world, one that he had created.

In this world the church bells never stop ringing,

A world where if you listen closely you can hear the dead singing,

'Is it to late to ask for forgiveness,

The man upstairs is our only witness and he doesn't sympathize'

Fergus recognized this world as his own creation.

His creation where everybody falls apart when it gets dark.

Where the buisness men step over bodies,

and the children are playing with ashes instead of poppies.

All of the characters were here in the land that he created with a pen and some paper.

All but one.

The poet.

Fergus had taken his role,

Determing who lives forever and who is forgotten.

Red roses filled the streets, as Fergus looked around at the chaos that ensued.

Ashes fell from the sky on this dreadful day,

While bodies all around were starting to decay.

And in the middle of it all a woman layed; on the soot colored streets, her hands tied with stems from roses, the thorns cutting into her pale flesh.

The womans body was bloodied and torn,

And in place of her eyes were roses, wildflowers and thorns.

Fergus’s father had always told him,

“A little bit of madness goes a long way, but just enough can make something beautiful.”

Fergus never made it back to reality.

He was found with stems tying his hands together and thorns in his hands.

And he had beautiful roses and wildflowers for eyes.

His pen was shoved down his throat along with a note.

'All of the greatest writers fall apart when it gets dark,

Their minds running uncontrollably.

In their work piece by piece you will discover dishonesty.

We are just puppest on strings

Fueled on the lack of creativity

Here, I find myself in this world I have created telling another poets story, all the while the roses thorns bind my hands and punturce my lungs.

But I regret nothing,

In fact I embrace it.

Here with me the greatest man who has achieve immortality, who has been trapped in a story forever in a time, he has told me “That no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”'

I don’t like Aristotle. Aristotle was wordy... he talked too much. One of my many ex-step-fathers’ lived by the credo that if he vomitted enough words, then the law of percentages said that eventually something intelligent sounding must come out of his mouth, so he never shut up. The same is true of Aristotle. It’s true! Look it up! Aristotle had something to say about every... damn... thang.

I will use as an example this quote a friend brought up of Aristotle’s: “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” Literally taken Aristotle is calling sex and procreation lunacy, but let’s move beyond that. The sentence seems like a simple truth at first glance, but as always with Aristotle, it is too wordy. To prove my point, let’s remove the word “great” from it? “No mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.” Doen’t it already make more sense? Is it only the “great” minds which contain a hint of madness, and not all of them? Of course not. A trip to any local Walmart, or a quick flip through Instagram, will easily prove otherwise. Show me the man without a hint of madness, and I’ll show you his corpse.

Aristotle, without mincing words, could have said the exact same thing using half the verbiage... how about: “Madness resides in every mind.” You see? Only 5 words! This is why I am a Socrates man. Aristotle was too wordy. And like Socrates I have questions about everything. For instance, do you think Aristotle threw the word “great” into that sentence because he worked for Alexander, and thought it a good way to call out the boss without getting canned?”

Hmmm... maybe Aristotle was smarter than I think? Or perhaps I’m crazy for thinking otherwise? Damn! If I am a touch madder, does that by extension make me great? Or at least greater?

Hey! You seem a bit crazy yourself! What say you?

Oh, nevermind. Maybe it would be a good question for Plato...

In the end everything returns to nothing

We want it anyway

In the beginning everything means nothing

We study anyway

In the middle we have everything

Until everything goes away

Do something even if it's wrong.

Chance is the gift we give ourselves.

Hope makes us human.

If you assume there's no God

your answer's clear

without, him, his book and PR machine

there's nothing to fear.

Humans had no hand in the concept creation of heaven or hell

left to their own devices

who knows?

just that there's no challenge to tell.