The line between insanity and genius has always been a very thin one. Indeed, many of the most creative souls the world has known have also been some of the most tormented ones, be they poets, novelists, playwrights, or artists of any sort. All that separates them at times is their gift, that which distinguishes from the mire of mediocrity surrounding them, even though it may not be recognized until well after their deaths.
What, then, determines this? What sets apart the genius from the lunatic, the gifted writer from the third-rate hack? Nothing but the eye of the beholder, the opinion of those who, right or wrong, will pass judgement upon it.. for one man's Monet is another man's cheap painting to hang on a motel room wall.
So where does all this lead? Merely to set the stage for what will follow.. for what lies beyond are the musings, thoughts, dreams, inspirations, and random conjectures of one mind. Judge them if you must.. call them good, bad, even call them utter crap not worth the pixels they are printed with... but better yet, simply let go your conscious judgement, and enjoy them for the fantasies that they are.
