I am the sanity in my mind. No, I am not the conscious thoughts that linger as I observe the world around me; nor am I the unconscious thoughts that provide me daily life. I am the therapist, of the past and present, the overdeveloped and underdeveloped-- and might even be said to contradict the mind. I am sane, understand, simply because I do not pay close attention to the outside world. Like the naive intern for a psychiatric ward, I am frightened. "Terrified, mortified, petrified, stupefied... by you," the realist that sees only the flaws in humanity. I wish for the optimist, as we all root for the underdog.

Nor is my sanity based solely off the diagnosis of the modern psychologist. That sanity to which I refer blooms delicately within my insanity. Without the roots, there would be no trees; without the trees, there would be no air. While some research the brain of a mad man, I research my own brain, construct my own philosophy. "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity!" as Edgar Allan Poe stated. I am not complaining, nor am I protesting against or for the mentally unstable. It is sometimes better to remain unrevealed rather than speak the mind, although it weighs heavy on the head. With my sanity comes his brother, lunacy, and whether I enjoy his company is none of your business. Whether he remains my companion presents neither importance nor relevance since his presence will always continue so long as sanity does. Say, a perplexed person pities the mind of the insane, while it is this insanity that drives them, well, insane.

And, let me confess, I like my own sanity. I enjoy the concepts of reasoning and logical thinking, but as I established I cannot fathom a day without my insanity. You ache with the need to achieve such a standard, yet you crave the feeling of what it's like to be insane. And, whether it's apparent or not, you are.