The Crazies

Crazy people don’t just wake up one morning and decide to go crazy. A conscious decision isn’t made to go insane. It just happens. Slowly at first. Things start bothering them that never did before, and they start creating another sense of reality. The city spawns craziness. Nothing is as it seems.
This city, she is my lover and my mother. I am doomed. I am the faithful husband and stepchild, stepped on time after time after time after time after time. To think that I- alchemist of words- may be crazy. I do the same thing time after time after time after time after time and get the same results. The girls don’t change. The liquor doesn’t change. The city doesn’t change.
In your mind, however, it may. How scary would it be to be schizophrenic? To one day wake up and realize that, yes, you are insane, and your world doesn’t exist at all. What would a sane person do? Cry themselves even crazier, and likely enroll in some therapy program with padded walls, never to come out. But what would a crazy person do?
They would embrace their fate. Why not? The world they’re living in is undoubtedly better than the one we are all in. Their city gleans imperially, with a sun shining so bright it could brighten any Topshop Princess’ teeth. The man on roller skates with the tinfoil hat knows what’s up.
And he’s not sharing.
Why would he? He can laugh at us fools, blissfully accepting our boxed in fate, living the condo lifestyle made so popular by the Pepsi generation. His life is better than ours. And the city knows it. She must. Or else why would she create him?
Meet God. Née Joe Smith.
Meet the angels.