Disclaimer: I wrote this the second week of December ’10. As the writer, I want whoever reads this to know: it’s utterly fiction. I like it and wanted to post it. That is all! : )
I think I’m going crazy.
Crazy, crazy, crazy. But the thing is: I’ve never gone crazy before. At least clinically crazy. I don’t know what going crazy means, but I am. The dictionary defines crazy as mentally deranged, demented, insane. Hm, what does that even mean? Who defines someone as mentally deranged? Probably whoever can read minds. Minds, minds, minds. Yes, my mind is going crazy.
I wrote his name today. On a piece of paper, while in class. I wrote his name.
Once I saw it… well, I scribbled it out. Luckily no one saw.
I think I’m going crazy.
Crazy, crazy, crazy. He’s in my thoughts, lurking for just another way to convince me of his ways. I’m drawn to him in ways I should not. He’s like a fox who knows how to capture his prey. But am I his prey? Oh deep blue skies, I do not know. These thoughts, desires are eating me away.
Oh and his eyes. His speech only but matches his gaze. If nothing else, his eyes are what get me. Looking, preying, calling me to bid to his will. Is this the way Odysseus looked lustfully at Calypso. Or was it Calypso’s desire and might that looked at Odysseus, paralyzing him from returning home?
Am I Odysseus, the who is being charmed, who will yield to Calypso’s desires and have only but a time of fulfilled emotion?
I am going crazy I tell you.
I draw, I paint, I read, I write and his name comes up in each one. Crazy, crazy, crazy. He’s a fox, sly in his ways. Will he catch the rabbit’s tail? Or will the rabbit outrun him before the dawning of the day?
Oh, how I wish I had an answer. Instead I have a name. An overbearing name that signifies a man.
But Sophia says to stop. To stop, stop, stop. How easy it is said then done. My thoughts run wild, like rabbits in the wild. Oh! But I have no control over them. Cause each time I think, I remember his eyes. Each time I remember his eyes, I feel his chest under my fingers. Each time I feel his chest under my fingers, I remember my emotions. Each time I remember my emotions, I can feel the beating of my heart. And each time I feel the beating of my heart, I know the thrill he gives me is far too great for me to ever over look.
He may be a fox, who is sly in his ways, but there is something about him that I cannot push away.
Grams said to me, when I was but a little girl as I sat on her lap and she stroke my hair, “Save your heart, my dear, for someone who cares.”
“But he owes me dinner, Grams!” I now yell in reply, “He owes me dinner.”
I take a moment to pause.
“And my heart is save–
“….” I imagine her ready to doubt my response.
“Yes, my heart is safe.” I shout, I jump, I yelled for her to hear.
He may be a fox, who is very sly in his ways, but I am a rabbit who will easily jump out of his gaze!