She realised she could be creative, after all. It wasn’t necessary to suffer. Life offered another route, quite cool. The rule did not have to spatter the hand with weals and heels, nor mad people cruel.
For she had discovered, with the help of bemusing strangers, and in the utterly brief presence of a person whose body she’d covet always now, yet would never get to caress, that madness and despair didn’t need to be journeymen at all.
“You can be mad and happy, and wonderfully adding to a world where hatred’s existence could still be refuted.
“You could live and smile and have wild ideas – and even so, not find yourself well out of evidence you needed and pleaded at 3am one bad summer’s day, when the incompetents in front of you demanded absolute coherence in an absolutely incoherent world.
“And you would defend forever onwards the right they’d mad defiled, when using your strange being and meaning and wisdoms to lock you up unruly, to criminalise coolly, to impose quite surely on the person you’d always been.
“And you’d fight them now, from now on in, to reject the dreadful normalisation of a society bent on destroying the very difference which made you so weirdly, so freshly sane.”
And that, all that, was her conclusion of says and days: there is no one in this world who is born to this insanity. There is only an insanity born of those who would drive us insane.