We are imaginative creatures. This, as a rule, makes it hard to define our sense of reality. We live this life in a pendulum between fantasy and real life, constantly in motion. We give abnormalities fancy names so that we can float by them without stressing it into a monstrosity. Abnormality, aberration, anomaly — the pendulum stuck at one end, we play the same record over and over, a song of endless verse.
We are afraid of fantasy, afraid of letting it coat us and our perfectly pointed view of reality, define it however you may. We fear being ill — the to-be-bonkers state that during which we are flown to a closed ward. We give our fancy-named aberrations loosely fitting definitions, which then lead to an almost-false diagnosis that ruins parts of someone’s life, or by contrast drives the medical professional towards insanity.
Our bodies seem to have been designed to both destroy and protect us. We add things to memories and take things out without noticing. We create new memories altogether. We lie to ourselves to survive.