I can honestly say I don't know when I first realized that I was different. Maybe someone told me, maybe something happened. But most likely I always knew, on some, fundamental level, that I was fucked up beyond belief. I wish I could say that my multitude of oddities stems from one, simple, concrete thing, that could be fixed overnight, but that's not the case. No. Instead each and every one of my complex and bizarre issues comes from its very own multitude of royally screwed up things. Some of those things are mental, others emotional, and all derives from some kind of environmental or historical personal tragedy. The sort of tragedy Shakespeare and greek poets would write about for fun and entertainment among the rich. And my teachers always wondered why I never found those funny.
Although most of those poets and authors were on par when it came to the horror each victim felt while enduring their tragedies, they always forgot to mention how much fun it can be. By that I don't mean the tragedy itself, or the humor that supposedly surrounds it, but rather what comes after. What I am speaking of is madness. Starke raving madness. See, madness is a beautiful and amazing thing that gives everyone and everything a wonder that no sane person could ever even imagine. Why do you think geniuses are often bonkers? Why inventors are loony and the best people ever are the very opposite of sane? Because greatness is madness. It's as simple as that.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Short chapter I know, but there will be longer ones I promise. It slowly ramps up. Thanks for reading the first chapter.
Vote
Comment
Follow (?)
Read one fellow weirdos! :P
YOU ARE READING
Beautiful Crazy (Hiatus)
Non-FictionTo put it simply, this is the story of a madwoman. One that cannot, in fact, be even classified as such. She is insane yes. But she cannot be clinically so. To be clinically crazy is to be unaware that you are so. But she knows. Knows she hears thin...
