crazy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
At my sickest my body was cage. I would never leave my family, my soulmate, my friends - or abandon the work I have taken on - yet I resented my beating heart. Only a person already in my heart can retrieve me from such darkness, only true love running in both directions. In the end it wasn't just one person, but many, who brought me back. So for all the hardships of being "crazy," I feel blessed to know that I am so loved.
"You don't know I'm crazy, you don't. Anyone that develops a new sense is going to get called that. You're all just kittens in a box, none of you ever seeing outside of it and assuming there is no "box." You're wrong. I can sense it. I feel the positive entity outside that guides and the those that seek to destroy. We aren't the "units" we appear to be, there are connections most can't feel or access. I can. The connection can't be used by anyone that wants power, only love. So don't go opening this door unless you understand yourself and know the dangers of the deadly sins."
One sheep, two sheep, why do we count sheep? Why not cats or... mice? Why are mice afraid of cats? Is it because cats are bigger than mice? Then why are elephants afraid of mice, when elephants are so much bigger than both cats and mice? Does Elain know that she forgets to turn the lights off in the attic?
“Now, now, Eduardo, I need time to process all that intelligence of yours.” Lately the voices have been awfully chatty, chattier than on the regular. Over a period of time you start to notice that mental soundness isn't the top priority of people here in the Kingstown slums. Alcoholics, prostitutes, thieves, beggars, people who really should be in a mental institution – you name them and we've surely got them, but they are usually never as bad as the posh ones say, apart from the murderers and the rapists, they are pretty much bad whether rich or poor. Seven, eight, nine, ten.
“Huh? What's that Margaret dearest? I know “They” watch us. “They” can be anywhere and anyone, keep you wits about yourselves my friends.” I've known “They” were after me for a while now, it's why I wear this mask everywhere and paint the lower half of my face, and it's also why I erased myself from the system, which is surprisingly not that hard to do in all honesty.
“Hm? No, Lucille, you can't erase yourself from the system, because you weren't on it in the first place. Are you stupid? Of course you are.” Sometimes I miss the stern faces of those nice young men in the clean white coats who once came to take me to “heal,” somehow Lucille wasn't around back then, and I remember... I remember a voice. There were little flowers too. I'm only twenty-six and I'm already running a business here in the slums, can you believe it? I can't either. There's also an illegal deal happening in the slums and I promised to resolve it, but it always seems to slip my mind, much like a lot of things. Seven, eight, nine, ten.
“I'm normal. I'm fine! Why are you looking at me like that? I like your hair.
Delia sits on the chair, rocking, rocking, always in motion. Her face is just the same as when she was a girl in distress, buckling under the strain. Every few seconds her hand flickers to her face to swat invisible insects. Each day is the same and the medications cause more harm than good, effecting her muscles and sending her into a stupor. When she speaks it makes no sense, like a telephone call only heard on one side and the caller leaping from one unconnected subject to another. Today she's worse, her speech becoming close to "word salad," no word connected to whatever came before. I want to stroke her face, rock her like when she was little, but she no longer knows I'm her friend let alone someone who loves her deeply.
There was a man on the street almost as tall as the lamp-posts that were so out of place in the daylight. It was almost as if he was stooping to keep his head out of the clouds that hung so low that day, almost like the fogs I recall from London. He had a pin-stripe suit, very smart, yet his feet weren't there at all. The final few inches of leg faded to nothing and he walked on air. As I passed he turned with a curious smile, cheshire-cat like. I watched him, transfixed, waiting to see if he would speak. At last he opened his mouth but instead of words he set in motion a stream from his mind to mine, a terrible river of nightmares.
"Crazy? I'm not crazy. It's just that you guys don't have the same connection. It's like we're all telephones with various wires but mine goes somewhere different. I wish you could share the line, jump right in and have a conference call with God, but you can't. So don't pity me; don't put me in a padded room and close the door; I'm happier than I've ever been. I feel a connection to pure Love, I talk with Him, take advice and hear His sense of humour. He loves you too. Love is all he does, and not in the soppy way, in the real way. What makes you "sane" anyway? An obsession with making money? Do you even know what that is? Maybe you're the crazy one? Here, have one of my tin foil hats and an invisible kitten."
...At first these streets devoid of moving traffic were spooky, now it’s just normal. Funny how quickly the engrained pattern of years can be overwritten. You either move with it or go crazy. Some did. Some were out there yelling for God on the streets. Some thought they were Jesus, some just saw demons chasing them, or so I assume by the way they ran for their lives. Without your sanity you’re yesterday’s news. No funny farms now, no locked wards and teams of nurses to inject reality into you. The depressives just became depressed, the manics ran around with no thought for tomorrow and the schizophrenics spiraled into the traps of their own minds, beleaguered without the medications they so despised. No meds, no support, no familiar world, even plenty of the “normal” survivors lost their minds. It’s not a matter of strength though, I don’t think. Just like immunity, the flexibility to adjust is either bestowed or not... no shades of grey...
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Silly me. I am crazy after all, but unless someone can prove it I guess I’ll carry on my God given mission without the hinderance of a straight jacket and a chemical cocktail for my brain. Did I tell you about the time I ran barefoot through the forest in my nightclothes because I knew for a fact that the demons were after me, chasing me? What a damp evening that was, almost twilight too, quite rough underfoot. Funny story, now that it’s old. I didn’t laugh much at the time though. It was as enjoyable as being chased by an axe wielding murderer. I can still feel the way my heart almost exploded with the strain and my lungs felt like they’d been given an acid bath. And then there was the psyc nurse “gang rape” at the end of it, clothes ripped off, male onlookers, forced face down for an injection. Remember to ask me about it later, we can giggle about it over some decaf coffee, it’s all I drink.
Can you imagine this brain on caffeine, holy crap, I’d be burning holes in the carpet just by running around so fast. Anyway, enough of that. I’m a bit tired now and the kids will be home soon. Isn’t anyone missing you yet? Don’t you need to go home? What did you say? I can’t get much volume out of you. You asked if we're talking about Kitty tomorrow? Oh no, not at all. You can see her though, she’ll be so happy you came back. Tomorrow you get to meet a dear old friend of mine, Dakota. Take care now and if you remember that life is more important than money, you’ll be more awake than most people you know. Have a great sleep. Just let yourself fade away, I’m sure you’ll be back home in a jiffy. There, you’re already looking more ghostly, bye! Same time tomorrow!
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
Malan would rock back and forth, all the while banging her hands rhythmically on her lap. If she were disturbed in her routine she would begin to bang her head and cry out. Eventually, when no talk could calm her down, the nurses would come with an injection to sedate her. Then , when she awoke, the cycle would start anew. More rocking, more banging. None of the medications or therapies had made her any less crazy. She was an inmate for life, no chance of parole.
It was just mad having him around, he would suddenly start talking out loud as if you were in the middle of a conversation with him. Always it was the same topic, a diatribe of events from his strict Catholic upbringing. He would often strike up the conversation to no-one in particular as if he were conversing with the chair or the table. And he didn't need you to reply, whatever you said or didn't say, he would carry on with his inner script just the same.
As I approached her she began to look edgy, staring down at my middle. "What's in your pockets?" she demanded. I slowly brought my hands out of them and showed her my empty hands, "Nothing," I replied, smiling at her, using the same kind eyes my mother used to have for me whenever I was anxious.