Madness is simply the description given to those that refuse to be a product of their time; to think boldly and to dream of things yet existing. This sort of madness can occur at anytime, almost always in quiet contemplation, for only alone, (and at a distance) can we look upon the world with sober eyes.
As I sit here in my elder years I cannot help but reflect on my life. I was a curious child. I saw things that got me into a lot of trouble, beatings, and even visits to the doctor a few times, before I learned what is and isn’t there in this world. It was difficult, at first, to not notice the strange lights whisking, the creatures scurrying, and the voices whispering; but as I forced myself to ignore them, they ignored me…
I had to constantly question my reality as I grew up and needed to be careful what I said and did. And though my strange sightings were completely gone around my 18th birthday, I did not fully trust what I saw and I became a nervous adult. I was easily startled and was unsuited for must work, and eventually, the stress got the better of me and I had a nervous breakdown. I was taken to a doctor that advised me to spend time out on the country every so often, as the fresh air would rejuvenate me. I cherished the idea and I spent every weekend from then on, on the Lonely Hills, a few miles north of town.
It was a special place, rich of lore and with a significance to my people. Stories of our struggle for independence and the very origin of our kind, with gods and everything. Unfortunately, there had been a lot of logging over the years and large swaths of the forest was now gone because of the industrial influence from the very people my ancestors fought to keep away. Though, despite its barren appearance, it still retains its magic – at least to me.
I liked it so much that I was miserable whenever I had to go back to town, and after many years, I’d seen everything on those hills… Or so I thought.
The Horrors of Writing 