In the instant, it's real to me

Is it madness when in moments of unrivaled clarity the cosmos drops its shy façade to speak, candidly to me and me alone?

Is it madness when the thoughts of every soul living and dead turn to aether and diffuse into my conscious, now so sensitive that each time the Earth breathes it tingles, a billion pinpricks against the skull?

Is it madness when before a great tree in an instant I relive its thousand-year past learn its pain and cherish its triumph knowing that those that came first gave it a name long lost except to me? I know it, I know all. I know it, I know.

Sometime soon all this knowledge will dissolve into pieces so fine that no hands could put them back in their rightful place, in glory.

Is it madness? Is it joy, beauty?

It isn't real except in the moment it is to me.