Bach's "little fugue"
played while figure eights
whistled in my head,
along with mathematics
to an un-equilibrium point
where self-confidence
meets self-doubt.
So, in
illusions created by the exact same demons
that saw the bottom from the top
and the pope as part of a conspiracy,
I created a theory, and ended in a padded room.
I painted spots on walls not assimilating
anyone others works,
became my own victim,
committed to rationality
while acting eccentrically.
Visions came to me, I sought refuge in them,
things I saw the real world calls bug-brained.
There I envisioned the cosmos as a limit imposed
on one's relation to self. I saw the dynamics of human conflict
as interludes of forced sanity.
I went as quick as I came.
forced into what I don't want to do
I enjoyed the chorus arranged in my head.
Like a game between people I don't understand.
I sneak into Princeton and proved the existence of God. in red sneakers unaware my theory was economic realism.
Then I rejected voices.
And won the Nobel Prize.
A poem about a mad mathematical genius! John Nash! True story.