A Question of Madness

   
    Who can begin to say when the madness began? Did it start innocuously, gradually growing over time, or did it suddenly appear, howling it's roar of defiance like thunder splitting a calm afternoon?
    Who is to say who started it? Did it brew over the years, steeping like a bitter tea or did it leap from the heart one day when the limit of frustration was reached? Was it time, demanding it's payment for a life spent wantonly?
    Where did it come from? Was it the need for control, or the lack thereof which caused this life to careen recklessly, like some skidding car being overcontrolled in it's last seconds before a crash?
      What is it, this Madness?
Love matures with age , or so they say. It does deepen, but along with this deepening the latitudes of forgiveness are stretched. Patience is a virtue, time heals all wounds.