What is "insanity" but an ontological rupture, a profound divergence from the teleological expectations of the ratio, that very cognitive apparatus constitutive of the logos of rational beings?
To fully understand the epistemological origins of this divergence is to tread the liminal space between the self and the external world, where subjectivity fractures and subsists in a state of continuous and vertiginous flux.
Is it not then the case that insanity emerges as a perverse substance, an irreducible form of disorder that distorts the very axis upon which the "real" is apprehended?
How then can the mind, when severed from its proper cognitive moorings, be said to process stimuli—cognitive, sensory, and emotional—in a way that conforms to the very a priori categories of intelligibility that Kant's Critique of Pure Reason presupposes as the conditions for possible knowledge?
Lets refer later on to Carl Jung's theory of Collective Consciousness.
The historical and philosophical underpinnings of the term "insanity" reach back to the pre-Socratic period, where an early understanding of nous or the (mind) and psyche or the (soul) hinted at a primordial tension between the terms known as "rational" and the "irrational."
Is it not the pathos of the mind itself that compels a re examination of the Aristotelian syllogistic order, given the undeniable presence of cognitive aberrations within this framework?
What can it mean for a mind to transcend through pathology, which is the very organon, by which it is to process experience?
Imagine it! Magnificent, truly, truly, magnificent!
Does the nous contorted by madness still recognize the physis of the world, or does it instead fabricate an altogether different cosmology, perhaps one that only a semblance of "normality" can adjudicate as irrational?
For, what is the true meaning of insanity?
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The doors opened.
A silence so absolute swallowed the air that sound itself seemed an absurdity, nay, it did not seem; it truly was.
Beyond the threshold lay a vast, endless library, a realm not meant for mortal minds nor immortal minds nor any form of mind be it god or even a cosmic entity or something beyond, a space that defied sense or sense defied it, a holy void steeped in eerie reverence, for the word void was not enough to describe; words of reality we speak of are not enough to describe such magnificence.
The floor stretched infinitely in black and white checkerboard tiles, polished to a mirror sheen, yet their reflections showed something just slightly... off about them.
Above, the ceiling loomed impossibly high with the black and white tiles as well, adorned with spiraling crystal-clear chandeliers that bathed the endless halls in a white glow, their soft hum gnawing at the edges of sanity.
The farthest reaches of the library faded into darkness—light simply failed to touch those ends, as if space had been wounded, as if existence itself curled inward to avoid them.
Towering shelves lined the labyrinthine halls, their heights unreachable with occasional brown ladders resting on them, stretching up into an unseen beyond. Each shelf bore books that ranged beyond what could be calculated or not, black and white, orderly and pristine, seemingly made all of them same smooth material despite being different colors.
The black books, when touched, sent a deep feeling of emptiness and numbness that could not be described using words, forgetting what you are.
No, forgetting what a self is. Or perhaps forgetting what forgetting is? Or perhaps forgetting what the concept of forget is? It matters not.
The white books, though visually identical save for their color, gave off a feeling of immense happiness. However, the happiness was not mere happiness, but Euphoric delirium, perhaps something much, much more serious. The happiness was enough for a man to torture himself to death with the brightest of smiles, enough to make the brightest of stars look away in shame.
However, if be something that was the creepiest of such, it would be the lack of words inside. Estimated, there would be around 700 pages in each book, be it black pages for those that were white books and white pages for those that were black.
But not a single word resided in any of the pages. There were no authors. There were no beginnings. No endings. Only empty pages, with one page enough to rival the concept of existence.
However, beyond the uncountable number of books, beyond the concept of infinity that did not exist in such place, was the anomaly—a singular book among the endless black and white: a fragile, trembling yellow tome, its cover pulsing like a dying star, like a dying leaf in the climax of autumn, the mere thought of opening it a burden too heavy to bear.
It lay untouched upon a small, circular white table that had one leg in the middle with a small white teacup and napkin, accompanied by a single white chair. The chair, though simple with not much to its design, radiated authority, the kind that demanded obedience without voice, without will, without life, without death, without 'nothing'.
Scattered throughout the first floor, incredibly tall arched windows stood like sentinels, their glass reflecting not the inside of the library, but the void outside, an abyss pierced with distant, unmoving white dots and other different colors, each flickering in impossible rhythms as if in a symphony or sonata.
Suddenly however, the window was shattered out of nowhere as if there was an invisible force that pressured it, making the abyss outside vanish as if it were never there and instead replaced it instantly were infinite rolling green hills peppered with small yellow, red, and blue houses in the distance, stretching to the horizon in impossible, suffocating symmetry with a grey road in the middle, connected to a very far beach with a radiating blue ocean.
Shatter another—another reality. Another world. But never escape.
And in the far distance, visible from the moment of entry, an impossible second floor loomed, accessible only by an ornate spiral staircase, one that seemed to ascend far beyond where logic should allow, but seemingly not going on forever with the ceiling present, creating a paradoxical thought.
The second floor was the same, yet... different.
There were more bookshelves, yet instead of the black and white tiles, there were merely white square tiles, separates by thin black lines. Gaping white squares were planted in the floor creating a ridiculous image, where nothing could be seen through the true white voids no bottom, no depth, no understanding.
From one that was especially incredibly large in comparison to the others a deciduous tree of bone-white bark had torn through, its white branches and leaves stretching like grasping fingers toward the distant ceiling, only to stop just before touching it, frozen in eternal near-contact, dark growing blue sand and soil surrounding it in a circle.
For the ceiling did not have lights on the second floor; for it did was not black and white; for it was white, with square holes in the ceiling as white light poured out, reminiscing to the image of false heaven.
And at the very heart of the second floor, centered within the spiraling madness was there the symbol of a triangle with a harmless, little single dot in the middle, carved into the floor as if by hands unseen. The mere sight of it burned into the mind, a symbol too pure to comprehend. And it waited. It waited for the yellow book.
The silence inside was interrupted by the slow turning pages of the eroding yellow book on the table, as if its sound was speaking volumes, before it stopped at a particular page that was not yellow like the rest of the book, but rather was half white and half black horizontally.
It was at that moment did the book horrifyingly go through the table as if it were transparent before landing on the white and black flooring, dissolving into the floor. At the same moment, did the entrance of a bright red spiral tube slide appear from the black and white ceiling before a rumbling sound came along with its prescene, signifying its intentions in turning the place into a water park.
RUMBLE RUMBLE!
A strong current of water gushed out in succession as it fell upon the white and black tiles, further mopping it clean before washing away the white table and the chair, sweeping everything in its way, be it books, shelves, or anything else. Rapidly, the water levels started to increase in progression, as the books, instead of becoming wet and sinking, were spotless and floating atop the water. A small yellow rubber ducky fell from the slide as it continued floating.
Soon enough, the water levels had exceeded that of the shelves, swallowing them up as it quickly continued to progress towards the second floor. Miraculously however, despite much water coming out of the slide, no water had exited the doors to the outwards void as if there was an unspoken vow of an invisible barrier preventing it from doing so.
At the same time, the yellow book that had disappeared slowly reappeared from the floor before floating up to the center of the triangle as if the floor was liquid. It was at that moment did a crack in reality fracture like a shard of glass before a part of reality cracked.
TINK! CRACK!
The cracks stopped for a moment, before a spiderweb of cracks was created seemingly in midair, as the water levels had stopped, with the small yellow rubber ducky floating innocently as if everything happening was none of its concern.
Quack!
The moment a quack echoed by the air pressure applied to its body, the glass broke open as if a glass jar had been shattered.
SHATTER!
At that moment, it became clear:
There was no understanding.
Beyond the fractured glass of fragile reality spun a colossal gear a relic of creation itself, its surface once radiant with a light celestial light, now marred by red rust, fading into hues of gold and worn yellow. If one were to keenly observe it, he would notice that there were hundreds of small gears inside the colossal gear that spun at an seemingly impossible speed for time to fathom. Although the gear was spinning midair, there were hundreds of other gears that had untold stories, and sizes were in the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of times larger than the gear spinning in midair slowly, the aura around such gear was much different from the others; it was the basis of all the other present gears; their godfather.
The weight of untold ages pressed upon it, and with each turn, the vast machinery creaked under its burden, as if the very essence of existence groaned with the strain of a forgotten purpose.
This was not merely a mechanism; it was a divine construct, a creation of __ .
A machinery so vast, it governed not just the stars, but the fabric of reality itself, its turning ensuring that the dance of existence and oblivion continued in perfect harmony.
___ had shaped it with a vision older than time, a blueprint for the concept of the universe and beyond the multiverse and omniverse and whatever could and could not exist, for there were things beyond the simple meaning of existence, and yet now it lay broken, its gears turning slower with each passing moment.
Eight mechanisms, once integral to its perfect turning, had disappeared. Their absence
left a void in the machinery; a rupture that echoed through the very core of existence, a
wound so deep that even the stars seemed to falter in their burning.
These were not mere cogs. These were the very pillars of reality. The absence of these
mechanisms threatened not only the turning of the great celestial gear but the existence of
all things. For these mechanisms were the breath of the universe, the forces that held
everything together in the delicate balance of creation.
For those mechanisms were Re_l_t_, _ala_c_+, Vo_d, R_ve-a_i+n, Ouro;*+uros, +—ut_, L0e, M{}m[]ry, and O+)d(er. Originally there were nine, but the gear was forcefully cut off due to the negative influence of external factors by the opposing power.
.
Without them, the gear was a vast, hollow machine empty, broken, and slowly decaying. Now, it ground to a slow halt, its turning faltering as the very foundation of existence crumbled.
The golden gear, once so full of light and purpose, now groaned with the weight of its
own dying rhythm. __ knew upon the void, receding that something had been lost, something irreplaceable, but fixable, but replaceable.
For 'it' had decided upon 8.
And 8 they became.
For they become
?
Pandora
Empty
Idea
End
Lie
Truth
Remember
Crown
For they were recorded in the yellow book; for they would become who they would.
For-
It was decided.