People ask why I am so interested in history; dirty, dusty, old and crusty history. It's simple, it follows the Principle of Parsimony, meaning the easiest answer must be the correct one, right? The easiest offering I have is I want to know if I'm going to be crazy one day.
History doesn't have to encompass the desire to know what types of tools the Sumatrans used to build their living quarters; no, it sometimes is just about finding out about the last five generations of my own family. Knowing that I had a relative who threw himself off the peak of a 14-story building might help me understand why I am afraid to look up at tall buildings, or maybe why I don't fear standing on the ledge of one. Maybe knowing that my own grandmother suffered from agoraphobia helps me understand why I feel antsy being cooped up, or maybe it lends to why I enjoy being on the couch so much.
My grandfather's sister currently resides in a sanitarium, showing none of the genetic disease that killed him over 15 years ago. Which path will I follow, senility, or premature death from a disease that has no cure? Maybe my mixed blood from the other blood line will hold all of that in check.
I can tell you which of my ancestors invaded which country dating back to 1066 AD, how all lines of my blood came to be in America and how eventually they co-mingled. I cannot, however, tell you if I will someday be insane. Frightening? Sure, how is that not slightly scary? On the other hand, do we really know if we are going insane? How far must that path be travelled before we can actually say we've arrived in the town center? Maybe I'm there already and those around me are either figments of my own depraved mind, or simply catering to my deranged state.
