For some of us, sanity is our work, the things we do everyday, the monotonous grind of dull, everyday things, everyday places and everyday places. Some of us turn to other places for sanity, for some of us, sanity is found with our head over the bowl of a cheap, stinking public toiles, throwing up the dregs of a litre bottle of industrial alcahol. For some of us, sanity is taken in pill form, or injected straight into a major artery. A great number of us abhor and reject the shallow, token shells that others like to call sanity. Where is it our place to say what, exactly, is sane, when we're living that same filthy, rotten, corrupted, fucked up life that we share with those we condemn.
Sanity is truly an elusive concept.
Maybe it's just a fond fantasy we cling to, to drag us through the gutter of endless, mindless pain. Yet I choose to believe, as many of us do, in something I have, anything I have, which I can hide behind to call myself sane. Maybe it doesn't matter if that's what sanity is, as long as I believe it is. I've added a couple of pages, if you want to look hard and find them. Cantos I and II of Inferno.