Rant 2.

 Whenever I go mad, like really mad, I couldn’t control that; I instantly want to kill someone—perhaps my father, the cause of it. Should I go with his mind or the entire body? I wouldn’t exist if he didn’t exist. And then I want to hit all the teachers who had taught me.

Then I shift to punching my fist straight into the mirror, or to hit it directly—whatever happens to be there at the side.

But wait, I say to myself, what if my fingers crack and bleed? The genius I am—how am I going to wave my fingerless hands to the public if I get famous? How am I going to show my middle finger to media when I get controversial through my paintings? How am I going to write anything down? How am I going to sketch? And lastly, how am I going to masturbate without it?

Well, I would still have done it with the other, but it wouldn’t be good; but I wouldn’t be able to do anything else other than that.

Then I stop my anger; I take out my bicycle and go out into the madness of these soulless, insane assholes. I don’t want to be a part of that.

Then I look at the not-so-happy faces going with about-to-go-mad kids in near future, with their wives holding a packet of hydrogenated vegetable oils with artificial flavours, colours, preservatives, and so on—mostly a good example of being so good unconsciously with no awareness at all.

And then I move to the supermarket; then once again I see soulless, mad people, now with their beer-fat bellies and their not-so-intelligent kids—perhaps some might have it, but get it killed in being a kid with their soulless fathers and mothers, buying and eating the mad stuff.

And then one cries, one nags, and then I realize that my madness does have some meaning, and I am really happy with what I don’t have; and I really don’t want to be happy with these.

And then I feel relieved; somehow these mad people make me mad and kill my soul, and I couldn’t exist without them, and I don’t know when I will go mad again, and I have to thank these mad people—somehow they are keeping me alive.