img_20170118_071440_654-1-1.jpg
Sometimes she liked the sound glass made when it hit the ground
There’s something about shattered glass that made her crazy seem less chaotic
Her crazy made darkness into indigo and blood blossom into dripping roses
Her crazy dead in the silence of the morning moisture, laying wide eyes under the red white and orange horizon, flat on her back a new cycle of 24, her crazy
Her crazy stiff like paralysis untouchable, unlike the craziness around her,
unique
numbness
How crazy was she that she dreamt and the ideas in her head jumbled into a mush of oblivion beauty, how the meadows were such a fresh green scent, a bed of flowers rushing out of her veins and out of into the concrete, making cities back into forests
The nature in the natural
Crazy
How she saw death caress the goosebumps of the morning fears but life coming to rescue and recreating, the crazy came again, and lately confusion is normality
The thing about crazy is its many masks of reality, like Plato in the cave, our ignorance so bliss we can cut it with a knife, staring at our own illusions and unable to see
The light
The gray in the black and white
She was crazy
She didn’t believe anymore, the ink in the lies, feeding her the spoon of perceived truth, but was it really truth?
She spat out depression and threw up anxiety because deception caused the stigma that she was crazy
Mental illness was what they said caused her hesitancy because her ignorance before walked her down the aisle of matrimony, but reality divorced her, nothing is definite and she can’t trust
Now she is just crazy
The color in the black and white
The unanswerable questions
The abyss of uncertainty
Sometimes she liked the sound glass made when it hit the ground
There’s something about shattered glass that made her crazy seem less chaotic
Advertisements