segunda-feira, 17 de fevereiro de 2014
I'm crazy. I mean, I think I'm crazy. Can't be really sure, since the lab won't test me anymore. They say the last time they gave me a cat scan, the cat got brain damage. So, I'm just probably crazy, which is more than can be said for the cat, who now believes itself to be a lamp post. As for me, I'm quite convinced that I am not a lamp post, I'm just cookoo bananas. It is a colourful state of mind, and not at all a bad thing to be. It has its drawbacks, though. People don't quite get you when you're crazy. They think it's ok to push you around because you don't mind anyway, and they fail to understand that the only reason you don't mind it is because it is not worth minding anything. Until some day, for some reason, you happen to hurt, and that's when it all goes sour. Because crazy people shouldn't hurt, just like clowns should not cry. You don't get to hurt when you're crazy. So you bottle it inside and go on living; you keep it to yourself and go on smiling, until the day you snap and do something crazy. And then you're in trouble, because you didn't have the right to do that. Crazy people don't even get the right to be crazy. And it's all fine to say that I would not be convicted by a jury of my peers, but I have no peers. No one has any peers, we're just too different from one another. Every man is an island, a big island of trifle and nothing in a vast, trifle ocean of nothingness. Then one day the island sinks, and the emptiness becomes just a little bit emptier. That's not the end of the world, it's just the end of nothing, so who should care? I started caring. I'm tired of stuff that no one in their right mind would care about. But I'm not in my right mind, I'm crazy. No more nice, no more easy going. Just plain nuts. And I'm fine with it. To the extent, at least, that I can be said to be fine.