A Crazy Tale

On November 19, I met a lunatic. He was crazy, positively crazy; that’s what everybody said and what I said— I even told the lunatic he was a lunatic, positively crazy, and he just looked at me crazily with these sad pale green eyes. Crazy, I tell you. I had heard about him years before I met him— some crazy man off his rocker who decided to jump off the cliff and into the unknown. They say the light made him crazy, turned a perfectly safe, sensible young man into some rambling fool. Poor thing, they said, shaking their heads. The tribal leaders want to chain him up, lock him away forever for his blasphemies. Poor thing, I said, shaking my head.

That was approximately two years ago— or was it three? I swear, I’m going crazy after spending all that time with the crazy man. I don’t even know why he came here— on the doorstep of my hut, or all huts— came to me with those brightly pale green eyes speaking some nonsense, some gibberish about freedom and liberty and the light— I swear, and they must have been right, the light did make him go crazy. He only stayed for a few days— or was it weeks? I swear, I’m going crazy because of that crazy man. I can’t walk straight, can’t think straight, my thoughts filled with some garbage gibberish my mind latched onto for some reason. Roaring blue waves, crashing on a yellow— no, not yellow, amber— amber coarse sand— coarse, that’s the word he used, some crazy word I’d never heard of but for some crazy reason stuck in my head.

I’m thinking about this word right now— I swear, I’m going crazy because of that man— I’m thinking right now, wondering if the dirt underneath my toenails is coarse, whether the limestone underneath my fingertips is coarse, whether the wooden rickety bars in front of me are coarse. He stares at me across those bars, with those brightly pale green eyes— crazy eyes, I swear, they make me go crazy. I swear, I’m going crazy right now, I think I see those brightly pale eyes get even impossibly brighter— even impossibly brighter with hope— that’s the word he used, a really ridiculous crazy word that for some reason stuck in my crazy head. I must be going crazy, I must be— that’s why my hands are reaching to the bars, unlocking them— I must be going crazy, I must be— that’s why my hands take his and my feet run with his— running, on coarse dusty dirt and coarse limestone sand and into his brightly pale eyes.

I ran into them and for a moment, I was blinded with pain, but then I saw. I saw the roaring turquoise waves, crashing on an amber beach, and I knew, in that moment, I knew. I’m crazy.