I’m not talking hospitals and sedation here, I should state from the outset.
But 2019 has undoubtedly driven me more than a little bit crazy. I have to face that fact. Sixty years ago, what is going on in my mind might well have got me committed to an institution, I have no doubt. Perhaps fortunately for me, such homes and asylums are now long gone, mostly closed to save money.
It is easy to speculate it might be my age. Perhaps I am going senile? But I don’t think so. (They never do, of course) Being able to write about it tends to suggest that my faculties are mostly intact, and I will get it down on my blog, just in case I am wrong about that.
My brain is completely overwhelmed with predominantly irrelevant ‘stuff’. This affects my ability to sleep properly, so makes me listless during daylight hours, with a tendency to fall back into yet more strange imaginings, and dwelling far too much on my past. Let me know if you have noticed that. 🙂
If I was a renaissance poet, such things might well be considered to be advantageous, even a confirmation of my talents. But I am not, so that doesn’t work. If I was one of the Bloomsbury Set, no doubt my confused musings would be regarded as fascinating, perceptive, and ahead of their time. But I am not, so that doesn’t work either.
Perhaps if I had artistic talent, like Byrne-Jones, the vagaries of my mind would be attributed to the genius within. But I don’t have such talent, so that doesn’t work at all.
I have to conclude, therefore, that I am just a slightly mad old man, wandering around in remote Beetley, with his head full of stuff that increases on an hourly basis.
That’s very disconcerting, I can assure you.