This poem was written a few months ago, about someone in particular, by someone in particular.
You may know this person.
Ambiguity holds us. We wonder what it means. The mysterious. The unknown. And though we might not always delight in it (though we often do), there's no denying we are innately drawn to decoding it. A simple phrase like "Will you be my asparagus?" delights us because we ponder what the chocolate cake it might mean. ...as does the cake part. (hm, I must be hungry at the moment.)
What is it that is so appealing about the mad scientist, or mad musician? Why is this image so popular in society? It's because there's this wonderful sense of magic, or mystery of how they function. The mad genius is so fascinating because they seem to exist in a world completely unknown to you. Sometimes they seem possessed with a disease, and at the same time this "disease" makes them interesting.
As observers we are quick to admonish against defining someone by their disease. But what happens when the "disease" is something the victim purposefully perpetrates, whether consciously or unconsciously? Chopin's pale, white, thin figure, his (do I dare say) effeminate manner of presentation, garners him intrigue by the audience. In a case like this, is Chopin the victim, or are we, the audience?
And so you find this post utterly incomprehensible. Good. I have caught your interest.