Yesterday, someone handed me their insanity on a scrap of paper.
It was a scrawl of words, tightly packed and obeying no lines. They struggled to stay coherent in narrow confines, but they would not be denied by space or rationality. Words were packed on top of other words, crammed up together in borderline illegibility. And they all clamored for the reader’s attention.
They had a thousand voices, a thousand theories, each wanting to yell out with alarming certainty that THEY knew who killed Kennedy. THEY knew what the One World Government was up to. THEY knew what those men in power talked about late in night. They knew about the radium in the water supply, the contrails in the sky, the devil’s pact between the president and al-Qaeda.
The words jostled with one another; website links, passionate entreaties, rambling greetings and needless repetitions. They bounced and collided and demanded to be heard with an equal mixture of intense sincerity and desperate loneliness.
The saddest thing about that insanity on a scrap of paper was that it was given to a complete stranger. That the words needed to be heard by someone, so he settled on anyone.