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I'm not crazy. Really. I know that's what most actual crazy people tell them, but I have enough evidence to prove I am not so. Just because you don't know doesn't mean you can push that word on me.
They keep questioning me with the commons. Did you get in a fight with your friends? They're deaf to my answer I've been telling them the whole time. Are you pregnant? I don't think it's out of ignorance, but misunderstanding. Is everything OK at home? Things really are complicated to understand when they haven't been where I've been, seen what my eyes saw. It's not boyfriend problems, is it? Some things are just too much-but it might actually be too little. Hey. I'm an unhappy girl. Glad we have that established.
After a struggle with school authority they finally let me go, after all; that is what I've been pleading for them to let me do the past hour. I'm a little afraid to drive now. On the highways, I've been having these fantasies where my hands gradually turn the steering wheel to the left and the next lucky car is the winner and we both are thrown into an explosion of glittering lights. I kind of like that. To be part of an instantaneous beauty that only a few lucky to none get to see. Once in a lifetime.
But before I actually play it out I remember the orange butterfly I almost hit earlier. It was a fragile thing, but not lacking in charm. The tiny creature was fighting its way across the air and the way it struggled. That particular beat of its wings and its effort. I pressed on the brakes and the butterfly was sucked by the air flow up past the windshield and over. That wasn't the kind of beauty I wanted to create. Then I would think about the other driver. They never did have a say in my artful scheme and I would force myself to keep the car straight.
I do admit that I'm not stable-at least not anymore. But crazy? Never.
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