I’ve always been fascinated with crazies. I’ve also wondered about being crazy myself.
What kind of guy sits there and comes up with all these wild ideas? It’s easy to say you’re “creative,” or “full of imagination,” but for someone to play the character of a crazy person, wouldn’t they have to understand how they work? And can’t you only understand if you’re crazy yourself?
This is what it’s like inside my mind. Constantly churning. Humming with thought. There are so many questions, so many possible directions, and so many answers, it’s like navigating a world of spiderwebs. And your only map? Something inside you. Call it intellect. Call it gut instinct. I’m not sure what it is. So impossible is the world, and the things around it, not to mention what’s inside us. We know a lot, but still lies the mystery.
Then comes the problem of time. You have the present, which is the base for all thoughts, and premonitions. What is a premonition? It’s more like understanding. For example, when you trip on a rock and begin falling, you know you’re about to hit the ground. Unless you’re covered in bubble-wrap, it’s probably going to hurt. And you begin to wonder: when I tumble to the ground, is it the same kind of premonition as someone who has jumped off a cliff? Do they think I’m going to die, it’s going to hurt, and that’s the end?
Anyone who knows what they want to do in life, experiences the same feeling:
It’s like something waiting for you in your closet. Or under your bed.
When I was a child, I would lay awake under the covers, knees pouring sweat, fists clenched. There was a light outside my apartment, and sometimes it would flicker. There were times when it looked more like a person walking by, rather than an electrical fault. But I would stare at it for hours, thinking something was waiting there. Coming closer. I imagined a shadow creeping over my bedroom window like mold. I didn’t know what it would do when it would get its fingers under the latch, and didn’t want to.
This is the first of twenty-six posts soon to come. Each is an anecdote, rant, or musing based on a letter of the alphabet. It seemed like a nice idea, alright?
In Junior High, I knew a girl. She may have liked me, and maybe I liked her, but there was something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Both of us enjoyed art. She would go to school each day with a little red folder, and everyone would gawk at her skill and talent. Perfect, smokey visages of celebrities floated off the copy paper she used—sponged down with sparkling reflections and glittery highlights. The only problem? Beneath those pretty faces was a hollowness. Void. But I applauded anyway, “Good work! Keep it up!” I said. She’d tuck the folder into her bag with a satisfied grin.
I played a lot of music at the time. Melodies were therapy, and chords, a pleasant distraction. But deep down, I enjoyed artwork. A year before, I’d been left to my own devices while my mom was staying late at work. During those few evenings, I picked up an evening ritual of drawing with the ballpoint pens I had. The hours would tick by at a leisurely pace, and I’d sketches zombies and monsters.
Clearly my mind was in a different place than this girl’s.
Some days the habit would bleed into other hours. When music grew exhausting before class, I wouldn’t hesitate to scribble away in the courtyard. One day Ms. Glitter-Gloss craned her head over my shoulder during one of these sessions. “Oh? What’s that?”