The closest thing to crazy I have ever been

I’d like to take a moment to talk about a crazy time in my life. Days full of crazy dreaming, a crazy passion, a crazy girl, and I in the middle.

I was never crazy on my own. But now I know that there is a link between the two. Being close to crazy, and being close to you.

K. Melua (2003)

I held her in my arms, and I looked into her eyes. She did the same, and we knew we were crazily in love. A passion that would never end, a feeling so strong that nothing would ever affect it.

But if the camera would zoom out, it would see walls, a lot of them, a barbed wire fence would appear, soldiers wth guns would wander into the picture. It would show a prison, and you would notice that the crazy girl wore a uniform, and that I was in a brown prison garb. The writings on the walls would scream for cars to stop moving, and they would be written in hebrew.

She fell in love with a prisoner, and I’m not sure I fell in love with her. But maybe I did, because I still feel a bit of that crazyness when I think of her. I remember that musty smell of the thick uniform, still feel her body straining beneath the heavy garment, remember the softness of her palm as it brushed across mine, and the coldness of the metal between us.

I was thin back then. I had hardly eaten in my run across the desert, and when the helicopter had appeared behind me, I had only lain down and looked at it. I remember the sand forcing itself down my throat. I remember being dragged across the floor, and being dropped into the ungiving floor of the machine. I remember groaning as I was rolled into the prison, and I remember opening my eyes, and looking into soft brown eyes. I remember smiling, and saying in yiddish that I would smile on the day I died. And then I remember her smiling.

She came to give me a meal a few days later. She asked me if I could still smile. I proceeded to demonstrate a smile, and threw in a few jokes. She laughed, and went off.

She came back often, and it seemed to me that we flirted. I joked and laughed with her, and I looked forward to her visits. It was crazy, and though it felt like my body and soul had died on many days, I never doubted that my heart would continue to beat. And to feel.

One day, she reached into my cell, and took my hand. She said I had hard hands. I smiled, not because it was funny, but because I could only smile when she was around.

We talked one day for several hours. The next day we talked again. On the next day, I was taken out for exercises. She sat on the watch bench, an assault rifle in her arms. She smiled and looked away. I walked about, feeling the sun burn across my tanned face. I smelt the desert air, felt sand in my lungs.

Then I felt a hand touch my back, and turned around to see her looking up at me. I felt something crazy in me, and I saw something crazy in her eyes. Then she walked away, and another guard took her place.

That night, she came into my cell. The next night also. She did not have shift the next few days, but in 3 days she came back, and came into my cell again. It was unexplainable, but I was mad at the time, and so was she.

After 7 days of our crazy love, men came and told me to leave my cell. I was taken to the entrance, and I had to sign a paper. She sat at the counter, and she looked up into my eyes. Then she looked down, filled out the paper, and then slid it to me. I signed the paper, then was dragged away. She didn’t look at me again.

But I saw that a corner of the paper was wet. With a teardrop, her signing off of our crazy love.


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