‘How many hairs on the palm
of your hand?’ my father used to ask
waiting to note, whether I would look.
‘None!’ gullible little me would reply
as he smiled asserting the quest
was in itself indeed the first
sign of madness,
to my bittersweet disappointment.
Little would he know then, that years
later growing up I would no longer search
yet would suffer as it happens from
mental distress,
to my tortured existential struggle.
Learning to hide hints and symptoms
of derangement I would confide
only to my Self, beloved faithful ally,
thereby exhibiting the second sign
solaced by Aurora to believe it was fine
whilst enjoying the conversation.
A dialogue between the many versions
of Self unfolding, for me to discover ego
laughing to my jokes, caressing my cheeks
whispering words of soothing power,
sympathising with endeavours
clement with my limits, coaching me
to courageously strive
to surpass them.
Counting stories of imagination
which would later be written
by my hands holding fountain pens
pouring ink on mute white papers,
a life of insanity within which
reason finds its peaceful abode.
As I now look around and observe
all the sane normal people who neglect
listening and talking to themselves,
I realise that my soliloquy engenders
a unique blissful bond, whereby
the trillion pieces composing me all
interconnect soundly rooted
in essential loving accord.
[Featured painting: The Death of Chatterton by Henry Wallis, 1856. Tate Britain museum.]