Mad Hatters

The sum of all my parts is me.  Like an unsolvable algebra problem I know the total, but where did x come from?  How did I learn y?  Why do I think w, or feel z?

Are there things so amazing they cannot possibly be remembered, so dark they must not be remembered?  Do heaven and hell converge somewhere deep in the unconscious creating squeaky little facades that don't even hint at what is behind those covers always on the verge of slipping?

One plus one only add up to two when they are written down in cold cramped little symbols devoid of passion and feeling.  Set them free in the world and suddenly they become so much more. One hand plus one hand equals ten fingers and then the possibilities become infinite.  Those ten fingers touch and type, shield and suppress, grasp and give in ways that alter perception.

Explosions and implosions make all things extrapolations.

Sitting in the eagle's nest above creation creates Mad Hatters whose eyes are burned by clarity and so I huddle far below shielding myself with order, with routines and schedules and only tiny little flights of fancy into the real world whose scope and intensity are far too great for me.

I know that if one of my fingers forgets that tea then the Mad Hatter becomes a mad hater.  The world is always on the edge of extinction.