Death of a Delusional Self-Proclaimed Madman

              I was on cloud nine. I built my castle on the clouds only to see it fall. I have been living inside my head and not in the world I am in. All of these I’s and still it could not move the world. My voice was only good to those who too are lost and there I was, a delusional madman preaching to the mob. The mob’s approval began my source of strength and I thought they made me their king. I felt like royalty for wherever I walk I hear my name whether called upon by praise, despised by scums of the earth and feared by maggots. I was foolish to crown myself from words floating on air. Were those words not true? The rumor of an Archuleta’s empire? All men dream to be great and only few did become one says posthumous folklore. At what price? The throne I yearn was a temptation. Power corrupts, my fame clouded my vision. I was weak to hear praise and not know what to do with it. I did love the people; I did serve them but I must admit that the masters in this world do not want an uprising. I must learn to bow down and the best way to succeed is through silence. How else can I flaunt when it is by my words that I did give flesh to my delusion legend? There are those men of action who credit honor through their deeds but there are those men of words who gave life to a corpse. It seems that I have given life to zombies. Who am I? A man of no position dare challenge the world? I was so stoned that I heard revelations of a schizophrenic inside me. I reinforced my delusion with words of great dead men who are only good in words that no one would love to hear. Here I am, defeated and alone. The world forced me to bend the knee and I thoroughly realized I was not meant to at least try to change it rather the world was meant for me just to live through it as if I had no choice at all. Succumb and everything will be fine. Those who dare mutate die, those who stay with the herd live.

              I lived a long time through the tattletales of madmen who’s worth are only for perverted aristocratic idleness. I forgot that I am not in a position to just drink wine and think. I am a prisoner of my grand lofty visions. At first, I thought thinking was the only way to redeem the crisis of humanity but I was wrong. I should care less with these thinkers because they are only great at the top of the mountain preaching to the wind and only to a select few who would buy the exotic. I should live my life as any ordinary person would. Think less, eat, drink, be merry and just live in the moment. Is it not life that just simple? No politics, no philosophy, no rigor, just plain existence and let the world be and do one’s best to leave it as it is. Heroes are only given honor after their death but I will be realistic, if I were to pursue such path, I would not be even there to know it. There is the delusion of making history, as if my action can alter the grand narratives and create another world spoken by the ultimate me. Again, why give my actions importantance for eternity if I am not there to hear it - as an epithet after I die. I think too much of becoming the partaker of grand narratives where I completely overlooked those who exists with me. I erased them from my view as I was looking to have a place with the gods and again, who am I? I should live here, flesh and blood. Not to yearn more than what is given and to only achieve what can be done. I should not deny opportunities in the name of stupid principles that only books would cherish. I think it is time to be with people and remove myself. Let the delusional self-proclaimed madman die and let the commoner live in peace with the common herd. I should not weave stories anymore, I would change my direction to just simply live life being with my wife, as a man and a husband. Forget the philosopher, forget the historian, forget the visionary, death to illusions of the asphyxiated and drunk. But what of those who laud the man whose words were the embodiment of his philosophy? What of the man when his life was his philosophy? Kill it. It brought no good because my thoughts can only move my pen to write and not history.

              It is time that all of these books have to be burned. They are useless. The knowledge I accumulated led to my own self-induced vexations. King Solomon sat on his throne lamenting how dreadful wisdom is, but woe to me that I am just a poor man. I have used the path I chose as a badge of my novelty and intellectual tyranny. It is time to remove the critical. No more! Think less. Appreciate life. Go with the flow. What is the point of being right when I am alone? I think the world is all about being with many even though we are all wrong. The herd is truth and that is reality. Follow it. They do not need an individual me thinking, they just need me to fulfil their need for numbers. No more isolation and thinking. It is time to talk the common tongue, because what is wisdom when I talk only to the fireplace? Tasio was a lunatic and I will not anymore twist that story to become a redeeming tragedy but have to accept that that is plain, sordid and brutal tragedy. Be with people. Yes! Please do not mistake this as sarcasm. I yield. Why continue to push the boulder upwards when I know that it will just go down later? All of these thoughts are just a product of my encounter with the absurd with a desperate attempt to save rationality by injecting lofty purpose. The time to resist is over. Here lies the Archuleta spoken about in the hallways of the academe by thirsty fools and by the mad dreamer himself. Say no more! I bid farewell. My books will be just a testament to what I was before and will not anymore be the guide of what I yet to become. This world does not permit us to be who we are, rather it is kind to those who would be the way the world want us to be.  Live peacefully in the world by leaving the world as it is. I will have no more say to the world and to myself. I am now at the mercy of others and I shall live by this law. Who knows, I can have many friends with this mantra. Again, this is not sarcasm.