Mad. Crazy. Insane.
You know the raggedy old man who stopped you on the street, trembling hands stretched out in mute desperation? That's me. I'm the one you see with the large stolen grocery cart, pushing it along the street, garbage piled high in white bags, saved for later when I can rip them open and search for edibles. I'm the one who comes up to you, my haunting eyes ripping into your heart, asking for money. You always refuse, thinking I'll use it to buy drugs, even though it kills you. I can't blame you. I look like a drug addict, with red rimmed eyes and ill-kempt hair; ragged clothing that hangs on my wasted body.
I read once, long ago, that children used to make corncob dolls by drawing little black dots of eyes on the face of a shriveled corncob, wrap it in rags and cuddle it like it was a porcelain doll. Their hearts, their love for it, made it beautiful.
I am that shriveled corncob doll...but I have no small, innocent girl's love to make me beautiful. The men with white coats and stern, unhappy faces...they said I lost my mind the day my little girl died. I can't remember back that far. I only remember a sense of great loss, a terrible grinding sensation in my very soul. Other than that, all I remember is these streets.
The alleyways, the garbage, the occasional disgusted passerby, picking their way around the piles of trash that are my dinner. Sometimes they toss me a dollar, sometimes a five. It's never enough. But that is my life.
Sometimes I have these moments of clarity. I remember far back, to a time long ago, when I would write at a computer, on a screen, write words that others would read and understand, write words and put them together in meaningful sentences that others delighted to see. I recall that sensation, the thrill of creating a real book...
Today I remember. I remember how it felt, and, reaching far back, drag that memory forward. I force it to come back to me, concentrating hard, and I use this brief rush of sanity to find a pencil and some paper in a garbage can nearby. I put these words on the page, and I know again how wonderful it feels. I am lifted momentarily above these dirty streets to a place where I am clean and happy again, with little arms around my neck and a small voice calling me 'dad.'
And then I fall back again to the earth, and this brief glimpse of a sane world is gone. My grasp on reality is fading quickly, and I have only the time to think one bitter, coherent thought. It doesn't matter anyway. No one will see this brief work of my sanity. It only happens briefly, and never often, and it's only one day. One solitary day in the life of a fool.
Very thoughtful, and it does work better as a metaphor rather than similie. 