Can one decide to love? I don’t think so.
We love involuntarily—
especially when we love madly.
And yet—haven’t I decided crazily?
What’s so reasonable that it can’t be ruined
by a calm decision?
I once decided—what, I won’t mention here.
It indicated rationality, but the craziness of it was clear.
Therefore, crazy can decide things. There is nothing about deciding
itself which is necessarily rational. We can decide
to quietly make known a feeling lingering,
a grievance that was rational
but argued with itself secretly and politely inside.
The only thing crazy was the decision.
To decide, then, is, itself, the source of crazy.
The crazy is the decision—we are betrayed
by the very rationality in which decision-making consists.
Deciding—and nothing else—is the stranger in the mist
stealing, in secret, everything, and hiding.
It really is the crazy who decide.
Deciding is crazy, crazy all deciding.
Society in the hands of decision-makers is doomed.
Avoid your rational friends. The skeptics.
The ones who decide. Avoid them!
The truly mad, who can save us, are dead.
They did things without deciding.
We thought they were passive, totally crazy. Remember?
They knew. They knew what this poem has said.