What am I?

What Am I?

Am I ‘mentally ill’? Am I a significant minor philosopher of madness? Am I a partially functioning victim of dreadful, life-changing iatrogenesis? Am I an average, ordinary welfare scrounger who happens to write bad, yet somehow prize-winning poetry? Am I Dionysus the Crucified, joyous mad proto-type of the adorable Savior ? Am I old desert-dwelling Set, father of darkness and chaos? Am I a distant descendant of that proud old tax-collector, St. Matthew? Or a cousin of dear old Anton Lavey? Am I a terrible, fanciful narcissist? Am I devout, self-sacrificing campaigner for human rights, putting my own neck and freedom on the line? Am I just a bored, cynical, romantic, (none too) cunning old scribbler of words and would-be money-maker? Am I just someone who likes to imbue his plots and poems with big, colorful, archetypal tropes? 

Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write.

— Michel Foucault

“I am becoming” — Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails

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