Define Crazy


It’s early, I know, only five a.m. or so. Perhaps my sleep is not complete, but it’s different each time the night leaves, the sunrise, I mean. Its king-painted colours, its time-determined cant. I crave to see the daily variance. People say that I’m crazy, leaving my bed prematurely. They say I need to sleep in to feel rested for the expected day ahead.

My impulse, though, is to celebrate the celestial, eastern canvas. What if this time it’s as if airbrushed—many soft pastels merging—to create colours I’ve never beheld? And early may bring a hand-detailed oil acting out a dramatic scene of sharp dark lines, spunky dark hues depicting a seasonal storm warning. Or will I see mostly pinks, gentle and sweet shaped like birds’ wings and smeared into blues? Never have I seen an identical canvas by The Artist, yet there’s been forever a sunrise.

No matter the season, I can count on the eastern view when it’s early, because I wake and arise although I’m still sleepy. After all… I just might be crazy.


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