Snapshots of Life and Other Disasters [Part II

]
“A vacation for those labeled ‘mentally ill?’ It cannot be those sensible times made of days when the expected happens, when all predictions are validated, the times that would satisfy the normal masses. No, with madness the problem is that everything makes too much sense; it is an incorrigible sense of the world that is maybe visible only to you. Interactions with others only serve to confirm predictions, following your script, validating your expectations. Can anyone else see its sense; can they feel its necessity?” — Kenneth O’Sirus in The Book of Black Days During a lull in a conversation, feeling the time is finally right, you say: "If we truly understood ‘eighty-nine,’ and all its numerical consequences, we would possess a complete understanding of the universe", an idea that had occurred to you recently, one which has since been obsessively picking at your mind. Continuing to explicate, excitement increasing, words coming louder and faster, the ever finer points of the possibly infinite details of your argument, you fail to notice as chuckles give way to surprise, as awareness slowly creeps into consciousness of your seriousness. They start to slowly flee, moving away across to the other side of the room in ones and twos, stifling their laughter and poorly hiding their look of surprise. Finally, coming to a stop, you look around and notice the decimation of the crowd; it had thinned until there were only two left, both slowly shifting nervously away, eyes furtively darting in the direction of the door, as if any sudden move would draw you with them. One had been idly picking at a piece of lint he had found on his clothing and the other seemed mesmerized, between furtive glances, by the design of the carpet. Both looked desperate for anything else to happen fire, bomb explosions, etc. — other than being a part of this conversation. It was the last party you remember being invited to. Shortly after that — dominoes falling of necessity — you stopped going to work, stopped seeing your therapist (after he had stopped returning your calls), your power was shut off and your home was repossessed. You ended here, alone in this eight by eight room, catatonically contemplating eighty-nine and understanding everything.