THE FIRST TASTE OF MADNESS
A QUIXOTIC MEMOIR: How I Tried to Fix My Head
I don't remember the exact moment my mind cracked. It didn't make a noise. It wasn't dramatic—no lightning strike, no hard blows, no sudden revelation, no monks chanting in the background. Just a slow, creeping infection. Like a disease which grows in your intellectuals' guts. A philosophical parasite burrowing into my skull, feeding on every illusion I had ever loved.
One day, I was normal.
The next, I was standing in front of a mirror at 3 AM, whispering to my own reflection:
It always starts small. A book here, a quote there. A late-night existential crisis that feels profound instead of terrifying. It doesn't glare. Looks sad. Forbidden. I had to look otherwise it would feel heartbroken; someday it had uttered, from its depth, from its ovel shadow, it says—forget me! I was terrified hearing those unheard requests.
At first, I thought philosophy would make me smarter, stronger, and sane. That it would sharpen my mind into an unstoppable force. Instead, it just made reality feel like a poorly written dream.
Nietzsche told me that God was dead.
Schopenhauer told me that life was suffering.
Cioran whispered that the only true philosophical act is suicide.
Fantastic. Just what I needed. But I kept going. Because philosophy isn't something you study, it's something you fall into like a black hole. And the deeper you go, the harder it is to climb out. It started with a book. It always does.
I was young. Stupid. Hopeful. I thought philosophy would make me wise. I thought it would turn me into one of those dignified intellectuals who sip wine and say things like "Ah, but have you considered the dialectical nature of existence?"
Instead, it turned me into a raving lunatic.
I should've stopped. I should've read something light, something normal. Maybe a cookbook. Or a pamphlet on tax law. But no. I kept going. Because I wanted the truth.
Big mistake...
