Yes, You're Surrounded By Crazy People
The world, is, and always has been quite mad. The reason for this is the fact that although we're all essentially made of the same carbon based meat, we have very slightly different electrical patterns in our brain goo that give us different perspectives on the world. Because it is our personal brain goo providing us with these perspectives, we tend to regard them as having some solid truth. However, as any student who ever sat through half a philosophy class before being struck down with an existential crisis that sent them gasping from the room will know, reality is a very malleable and indeed, tricky thing to pin down. Even among close friends and family, versions of reality can differ wildly depending on factors such as favorite media sources, prescription drug habits, age and level of indoctrination into various belief systems.
The end result of having over 6 billion realities all running about on the one planet is that, for any given one reality, the word will seem quite mad at any given time. We think that we are part of a shared reality, and perhaps on some points and in some instances we are, but at the best of times, realities only ever intersect for a moment or two, before diverging back into the wilderness of the possible.
But what really throws a spanner in the works of these multiple realities is that although we can't agree on what the truth of any given matter is, we nevertheless, all behave in very similar ways and have done since the dawn of mankind. Our perspectives differ, but our behaviors and drives are coded into our DNA inescapably.
Most of us play the role of pawns, trapped in the same hierarchies that have existed since man descended from the trees and one Alpha male type offered other males bonus fruit if they collected bananas for him. Some of us periodically fall prey to the belief that giving these hierarchies a different name will change the essential nature of how humans interact. It won't. Call it a monarchy, a democracy, a theocracy, it doesn't matter, at the end of the day, the bulk of us will end up beholden to older males with penchants for purple robes.
If you read books written throughout history, you'll note that people are always complaining about the same themes. Intellectuals wonder why the average man is so stupid in voting against his interests, young men want to run off and find glory in wars, young women want to marry well and produce pretty children. A few rebel from these norms to find themselves labeled and treated as outsiders. Most of us end up producing progeny of some sort and the spectacle continues, the greatest, maddest show in the universe.
Douglas Adams wrote of a man who had build his house inside out in order to put the world in an Asylum. Here, let me treat you to a short passage, I'm sure Douglas wouldn't mind terribly:
His house was certainly peculiar, and since this was the first thing that Fenchurch and Arthur had encountered it would help to know what it was like.
It was like this:
It was inside out.
Actually inside out, to the extent that they had had to park on the carpet.
All along what one would normally call the outer wall, which was decorated in a tasteful interior-deisgned pink, were bookshelves, also a couple of those odd three-legged tables with semicircular tops which stand in such a way as to suggest that someone just dropped the wall straight through them, and pictures which were clearly designed to soothe.
Where it got really odd was the roof.
It folded back on itself like something that M. C. Escher, had he been given to hard nights on the town, which it is no part of this narrative's purpose to suggest was the case, though it is sometimes hard, looking at his pictures, particularly the one with all the awkward steps, not to wonder, might have dreamed up after having been on one, for the little chandeliers which should have been hanging inside were on the outside pointing up.
The sign above the front door read "Come Outside," and so, nervously, they had.
Inside, of course, was where the Outside was. Rough brickwork, nicely done pointing, gutters in good repair, a garden path, a couple of small trees, some rooms leading off.
And the inner walls stretched down, folded curiously, and opened at the end as if, by and optical illusion which would have had M. C. Escher frowning and wondering how it was done, to enclose the Pacific Ocean itself.
"Hello," said John Watson, Wonko the Sane.
How does one live in a crazy world with crazy people? We can do little but build our own Asylums, not physically in the world of course, that would require planning permission from councils far too mad to appreciate the genius of such a building, but in the sanctuary of our own minds, the last place on Earth that planning permission is not required.
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