Tried to continue reading Artaud, but found that it was not very difficult to enter into his insanity. I had to stop at the verge of fright. I cannot go back to him, at least not for now. More than three years ago, my body was less than an inch close to several lunatics (clinically), while in my mind I initially tried hard to go far from them. However, after surviving my first five practicum hours, the next 95 seemed to come so fast. Before I knew it, two months passed by, and I was already submitting my report on the case I handled (of someone with paranoid schizophrenia).

Not a few poets/writers are known to be insane. At the least, they were called eccentric. In the Philippines, I’ve heard (also from the hospital where I had my practicum) that Federico Licsi-Espino was diagnosed for having a mental disorder, and had moved from hospital to hospital until he was finally confined to the National Institute for Mental Health. For now, it’s still hearsay; I don’t know whether there’s a reason to pursue this kind of truth.

For those who saw Brandy Ayala (a former bold star; still, an artist) at The Buzz yesterday, you knew that she hadn’t fully recovered yet. An insane individual’s smile was the saddest I saw ever (not Brandy’s). Probably because I felt pain in realizing how a person may not be fully aware of her/his own happiness. But can I be happy knowing that s/he may not also be capable of feeling pain? Is it enough consolation?

Is it really only this—awareness—that separates our “sanity” from theirs?