I have questioned my sanity for as long as I can remember, some days more than others. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, so much that the universe manufactured an interesting encounter.
As I was taking a ritualistic evening walk the other day, catching the warm, golden dipping sun, I met a madman. No, not William Ruto. An actual clinically insane batshit crazy bloke, as evidenced by his walking by himself, laughing, rambling incoherently, and generally having a swell time with the voices in his head. He was unclean and unkempt, as you’d expect from a clinically insane batshit crazy bloke, but to my surprise, the man had a white suit on—or what used to be a white suit. It was reduced to tatters and more of a chocolate shade as I wouldn’t presume he had thought of having a change of clothes since he lost his mind.
This little detail got me: a clinically insane batshit crazy bloke in a white tux. Because it meant he was once a sane guy like you and me, with an Equity bank account and a favorite beer, and then, somewhere along the way, he wore a white tux and went mad.
Perhaps he used to be a pastor in Juja. In the spirit of trying to understand the marijuana pandemic gripping the little town, he decided to try the stuff. It would help him understand this drug that ailed the community, only for him to unknowingly smoke a street joint laced with cosmos, a cheap pharmaceutical pill that enhances the marijuana high but has the small side effect of psychosis.
Or maybe this was Jesus, back down here again to take his people and leave the rest of us miscreants to slaughter and finish each other. He had changed his mind about coming back as a thief and opted for a madman.
In this new form, he was here to test his loyal subjects. Find out who would help him as a clinically insane batshit crazy bloke; who would take him to their one-bedroom, put on some YouTube for him (perhaps Iko Nini or Kisiangani Pod), feed him, clean him, clothe him, and take him to Mathari the next morning.
If this was actually the J.C of Nazareth in front of my eyes, he must have been rudely shocked because no one stepped forth to help. People repelled as he walked by, curiously observing him once they were a safe distance away.
As for me, I was too startled to move. I hadn’t seen a legit crazy man in ages. It also hit me that there were way more crazy people in the streets when I was younger than now. What’s up with that?
As I stared, his orbs briefly met mine, and we were in direct, doubtless eye contact. We’d seen each other, registered each other’s existence in our respective temporal lobes.
In that glimpse of eye contact, he seemed to be present, aware, and as sane as you and I, which made me really wonder whether he was clinically insane, batshit crazy, or simply tuned in to a different frequency, dancing to a different song.
Perhaps he is the sane one, and we, the normies, the NPCs, the goyims, the conformed, you and I, are the insane ones. Aren’t we laden by earthly vanities: purpose, meaning, status, possessions, lust, and the fucking constant need to amass, grow, and hoard in anticipation of future disaster? We’re burdened by the monkey mind, utterly unable to be in the present. The madman cares only for his meal now. When nightfall comes, he will find a secure shelter to lay his head for the evening and sleep a deep, ancient slumber.
Anyway. I will not lie and say I was not a bit shaken from looking into the orbs of a clinically insane batshit bloke. I watched him saunter away, headed to where his free mind would take him.
I proceeded with my walk, trying to make sense of it all
