Way to Be
They wouldn't have liked being crazy.
It meant you cared only about stupid stuff. Thought, only, of stupid stuff. It meant you drifted around in your own brain, feet carrying you in random directions. It meant you went nowhere. And you went there very slowly. It meant you slept forever or not at all. Said weird things. Heard things people couldn't hear.
But sometimes being crazy meant you could stop mid-step, and stretch your arms up to the sky.
Or throw yourself suddenly onto the ground to feel the roots growing in time with your heart beating. And be able to feel the pulse of the world, in time and against and beside your own. And be loved, by everything natural and simple and trustworthy. Always. Never be alone.
So crazy with a brain-full of the chaos of the universe, that the world recognizes and reciprocates and speaks to you straight through concrete. And it says, "I love you", and "I'm here".
They stood there in the middle of the busy sidewalk, surrounding Brooklyn face-down on the asphalt, and envied his steady breathing in time with all, supported by all, pretending they wouldn't have liked being crazy, wishing they were.
a/n: BEGA for feather-duster.