I know I am crazy. The stories I enjoy the most revolve around craziness.I love hearing of a deranged individual perturb the normal or to poke fun of boring individuals by acts of outlandish, sometimes borderline criminal, activity. That seems interesting. That seems worth living. To hear what a degenerate crazy person does when confronted with a substance or material unfamiliar to him/her, that tickles my fancy. Probably because I am crazy.
I think people like to see the crazy in the periphery for a brief glimpse. In small doses they can handle the crazy. While they engage in the routine conversation points at a restaurant, they’ll glimpse at what an artist drew nearly starving under the influence of acid never knowing if that piece will amount to anything. Creative people have to be crazy.
It is the only thing they understand. It is the only thing I understand.
At least that is what I tell myself when I feel crazy. The ups: it is like speeding on a broken down highway with curves and mountains and flowing oceans without a guardrail teetering on empty hearing a wolf howl. Living on the edge is just remaining untaimed. A wild person filled with bedazzling vigor touches the world around them with ginormous intentions yelling at the sky never knowing if anyone listening is worth giving a damn.
Being crazy ain’t always fun though. Its got demons voluminous enough that make one shed a tear in fright. Fight or flight, that don’t matter. In fact nothing matters. Relationships, jobs, money, life, some days I hope one day any of it matters (even if at that moment I feel it doesn’t). The immeasurable boulders of stagnation have a plight and it is to keep me down for the count.
I wonder how most people perceive the world around them. Is conventional conversation banal hackneyed jargon one repeats hoping to relate to one another? That’s probably just me. Right?
For me to be interested in a conversation, I want to hear about the time you shat your pants being too drunk to get your head out of the toilet bowl. Oh wait, that’s just me. Something completely outlandish that makes me relate to them by how little give a fuck they have. Sort of like me sometimes. You know, so I can relate to them.
I just cannot relate in conversation to the vast majority people. Never have, probably never will. Many people first assume that I am just shy. More likely it is that I don’t think you’ll have any interesting tidbits to share with me. I do not want to upset you by sighing loudly or rolling my eyes so I politely avoid the conversation.
Please don’t take this that I am better than you. I am not. I hate myself more than anyone else. I, in fact, envy you most likely. You can live day to day and not think about how much better life would be without it ceasing to exist in all this boring minutiae. I cannot. Life is pretty shitty for me, except the craziest parts make it bearable.