Madness

I know very well that, as a writer, you should *never* compare yourself to other writers, because that way lies madness. ~ Adrian Bedford

All my life I've surveyed the crowd
though seldom interacting. No,
I stood apart, in my place, assessing
where that was. Life felt like a ladder,
or maybe a series of narrow risers,
slender steps, suitable for one, where people
assembled in preassigned order. I thought
then we each inherently realized the proper rung,
our assigned level. Now I know I played the sorter.
Most remained on levels lower than mine —
those lesser souls, less smart, less educated,
less capable than me – or than my concept of me,
of what I wanted to be, wished to believe myself
to be. Others perched above me, unreachable,
gods to be admired, emulated. These beings
I longed to be, wished to befriend, but, humbled —
or so I would have thought but more probably
humiliated by my thoughts, by my perceived awfulness,
by remaining a lesser in my mind.
Now I live on a level stage, an actor among the cast,
no better, no less, just perhaps more obedient to a power
greater than I. Surely it's true. Writers – and cooks,
drivers, janitors, professors, best-selling authors,
and normal folk – merely need to release the fear,
to grasp the hand of the one, the only one,
on a higher rung, who pulls believers away from
madness.