The Ceiling Fan

“If the ceiling fan started speaking to you
Your first instinct would be to listen,
Not to assume you were crazy,
Right?”

He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled,
Slowly.

When I exhaled my breath looked like smoke, too,
Rising toward the streetlights.

We were walking, walking, walking
Going nowhere.
Always circles.

“Well, no, man, I’d immediately think I was crazy,
But then again,
I already do.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t want to hear what the voice had to say?  What if it was God?
What if the message was important?
What If I’m supposed to help people,
And love them
And all that shit?”

I listened.
Listened and watched as he walked himself in circles,
Smoking, one foot in front of the other,
Telling me all the words that God told him
Through his ceiling fan.  

He was undoubtedly crazy, but many of the best people are.
And anyway, who am I to judge?

If it were a bush speaking to him
In authoritative tones
Would he make the morning news?

Maybe they’d write books about him.
Maybe he’d be famous.

I spin myself round and round in circles too,
And sometimes it would be nice to believe
That a God is coordinating this dance.

We are all delusional.  
It’s just that some delusions are less obvious.

Me?

I delude myself with love
And hope,
And sometimes I even try to believe
That everything will turn out okay.