Madness is when
the mind gets stuck
on the wound that never healed,
when the scab that can be picked at
starts to bleed and before the clot can be formed again
you pick it apart, just so you can stay there
in the pain.
Because underneath the life you lead
that scab itches
and when you run your fingers across the surface
you can feel
the bump
the inconsistency -
the knowledge of your failure to gain
full closure.
So in order not to be
exposed in your ugliness
your scabby state naked to the world
you clothe yourself in the business of everyday life
and cover over your wounds
with the mask of sanity -
you deny ever having been hurt at all.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
