The Crazy

When the crazy hits the page, it is cathartic. It feels like all the swirling--all the chaos--the muddled ooze of atoms and breached barriers--torn jetties--fragmented souls--all the fucked, fecal remains of sweat, adrenaline, and cum--all the battered levys and harried canals--are somehow organized into semi-coherent sentences, complete with colons, semi-colons, commas, and periods. It feels like the crazy is forced to confess itself in an organized manner--to testify to its existence--to tell the world that it exists--to witness to what I have been saying this whole time.

When the crazy hits the page, it is cathartic somehow. It doesn't make it worth it. I don't really know if that is possible. I don't think even God could do that--justify the breaching required for the crazy to tear up the little pink cepallic enter of my self--the virgin space criss-crossed by the lines--tears--violations--of breaching.

No, when the crazy hits the page it isn't about making it worth it. Making it worth it is a tired cause--it is a non-issue that doesn't even deserve a response at this point. It is never about making it worth it. No, when the crazy hits the pages the cathartic part is that I can see it--read it--and force it into grammatical servitude. At that point, the crazy is spewed forth--vomited--into categories, syntax, and grammar. At that point, it is real. It exists. It is an entity; a being.

It's real. That's the cathartic part. I don't have to persuade any longer--I don't have to cajole. No. When the crazy hits the page, I might be dead--but the swirling dervish of pain, trying, hope, idiocracy, and meaninglessness is immortal--it is its own at that point.

When the crazy hits the page I smile a wide smile--I grin from ear to ear--and laugh. When the crazy hits the page, I grab my belly and shrill from the inside out. When the crazy hits the page, I know it won't stop--but I at least know I know it is out--real--for everyone to see. When the crazy hits the page, I know that the criss-crossed lines of my pink center are born out--laid bare--and singular--no one has my lines--no one has my ridges--my canals--my marks--I might be dead, but my breaches--the breaches that make me possible--testify to the crazy that made me possible.