Sometimes random flashes of irrationality run through my wired and tired brain. I might picture flinging myself over the white steel ledge of a ferry crossing the Aegean Sea, or crashing my car against a tree as if to see what comes of it. Don’t worry, these are not impulses of self-harm, far from it – I enjoy indulging in these endless self-analyses far too much. Perhaps one might see this as a side effect of narrative theory, a transpiring of the notion of the need for conflict and rising tension to advance an underlying plot. Adversity develops character, complexing it, and I sometimes picture pinching through this bubble of comfort I worked so hard to envelop myself in.
And then I ask myself: are these early signs of sheer craziness, or does everyone have these weird thoughts at times, like a sudden, unexpected flash of alternative realities and choices? Perhaps I should listen to my partner when she tells me ‘That is not normal’, something that rarely fails to trigger something deep inside of me. What is normal? What defines one’s normality, and by what maniac’s standards? What if normal is quintessentially not right? Perhaps these thoughts about life’s relativity and its abnormal norms are the product of an unproductive writer’s brain with too much time on its hands.