Being mad is actually quite difficult.

It's not a summation your actions, whether they tip the scale towards good or evil, it's not hearing voices or wanting to kill people.

It's knowing perfectly well what you believe, how you can be reasonably happy, and then going against it. There's no logical explanation. It defies psychological classifications. No psychologist would be able to tell you if you were truly mad. How does that make you feel?

The night air is brisk. It burns in my throat, but that tells me that I am here, that I am now. After all, without our sensory perception, we are nothing. Don't look at me that way. You can't honestly tell me that you believe brain-dead people are still alive, can you? No, you cannot. Life begins when the brain develops and operates independently, and ends when it ceases to function. There is room for argument, certainly, but why would you want to philosophize an idea that will never be unbiased?

I supposed you're wondering why what I'm telling you is relevant. I don't have to tell you, but I will. I suppose you have guessed that, though.

It makes it easier to do my job. If I can believe that I'm not the one killing, that my presence is in-ci-DEN-tal, Clarice, then it takes less effort. When I watch the flames lick up their faces, melting skin and clothing until they are one, I can't help but remember that there is a difference between passive and active murder. I prefer to think of myself as a passive sort, really. I only start the fire. That doesn't mean that I'm responsible for what it destroys.

What? You don't agree? Then I refer you to a story by the esteemed Mr. Bradbury, a particular favorite of mine. It's called "A Sound of Thunder."

While you're doing that, read Fahrenheit 451. While Scout has his disgusting magazines and Demoman his alcohol-fueled fantasies, I have a worn, dog-eared copy of that book. My God, it gives me chills.

I am good at what I do. That doesn't make any difference either, though. We can be good at whatever we want. I, for instance, was good at being a preacher. I believed that I was good at it, that God chose me to be a leader for His lost. Did He? Yet another insignificant detail. We are what we imagine ourselves to be, what we want most. We are the summation of our desires.

I had a good job. Everyone loved me, or at least was afraid to say if they didn't. It's the same, really. Love is based on loss. If the person who loves you most wasn't afraid to lose you, they'd never have cared about you to begin with. Love is a senseless clinging to things that we most fear losing.

I move my fingers just so, and my lighter flares in the blackness. I don't smoke, but I enjoy being useful. Spy smokes, you see, and so does Sniper. It's nice to be able to offer them a light if they need it.

It's also nice the way fire always come when you need it most. If I could carry around a container of love and command it into being when I needed it most, my faith might lie somewhere else entirely.

I just keep going back to it. It would have been so easy. Everything I did, I could blame it on someone else, someone so powerful that no one would argue. But I would never have been happy. Some people spend their whole lives doing things that don't make then happy. I can't decide if this is arrogant or valiant. When the end comes, which is better? To have been good, or to have been happy? What I'm really asking is this: Am I mad, or are you?