Mouth half open, he looked to her experience to figure out how to react.
There’s no instruction manual for madness. “There’s truly so much we do not know about the brain”, says every psychiatrist ever. At least the ones who agree to make eye contact.
There’s no frequently asked questions guide for the spectator, either. Mouths are left wide open. Even professionals in the field, like the woman across the room witnessing the same sport, cannot anticipate the particularities of each manifestation of crazy.
And not only was their girl a unique manifestation, she was also completely out her dome.
Sure, life is a series of unexpected events that we must adapt to off the cuff. It’s not like we’re ever owed any absolutes. We’re improvising this whole business.
But normal life is deeply repetitive. Age and a healthy dose of self-awareness can guide us through. I know I learned most of what I know about human behavior from television, so you don’t even have to step outside to pick up some clues.
You only see madness play out on TV if you have the paid channels, and I didn’t grow up with those. This is a shame because it’s a fascinating topic.
How, then, was he supposed to know what to say when she was rubbing lotion all over the walls of a hospital room?
Mouth still half open, no words poured out. They just weren’t there. Words weren’t down for this kind of party. Surely if they were there they would’ve ended up scribbled on that freshly moisturized wall post haste.
Because madness is a revolution. Madness is a message that must be written in ink.
At least it feels that way when you’re completely out your dome.
She woke up a few days later, skin dry as a bone.