When I tell the truth to myself, I sound like I’m lying. (I hold irrational beliefs. My first-person point of view is invalid.)

I watch my credibility burn with the acid of my diagnosis. I grip nothing. I grasp at imaginary straws.

“The number following 0 is 1,” I report to you with a confidence index that has its own confidence index. “But, will you check my work again?”

Padding my armor with facts, “A breeze is blowing,” I claim. “The sun is out,” I state. “Believe me,” I beg. But I can’t tell if anyone believes me.

(I doubt the sun)

No part of my name identifies me. I’m not even in my body. The Mind of God owns my soul; I’m Their doll.

God wears me. It feels my life with my senses. If I want to be alone, not even He can let me. There would be gaps in Her omniscience.

I know it sounds ridiculous. I know it does. “I know,” I laugh, “I know”… but it is not ridiculous. Specifically, it is absurd.

Hyenas with my nicknames branded on their fur all fight for my attention. Mental sinews snap in tug-of-war, theirs and mine. Teeth grind, theirs and mine. I’m scattered among hysterical dung.

It’s not enough to prove a thing. It has to be measured, Mr. Cantor. Has to be felt by the physical apparatus of God, which is to say, the Material. The Flesh: scientific instruments, my tongue. I will taste what you theorize.

I’ll count out loud if I have to.

Woe to those who recognize their own irrationality. They cannot plea insanity – only plea insanely. They behave like madmen. They are tried as healthy.

Castor reasons with a delusional Pollux. Pollux argues gently with a misguided Castor. Both are certain the other is wrong. As it happens, both are right. They cannot convey the fact.