I can't control the shaking urge the anger causes in me. A live wire of impulses vying for control of my mind. Do I have the sanity left to resist? Do I want to? The demonic temptations lure me into their warm embrace and I sink back into a momentary bliss. I can't fight this even if I wanted to. There's no cure for what I am, not that I've been looking, but to fix what's wrong with me would be to alter my entire state of being, something I'm not willing to let happen. Many have used drugs and found light in their haze. I'm afraid I would find something else, something infinitely worse than what's living inside me -- endless boredom.
The world isn't the bright fantasy land most make it out to be. People love to delude themselves with happiness that is more fictional than any story ever written. Look on the bright side they say or Don't be such a negative person. How is being honest about who I am negativity? Maybe their criticism of me is proof that the world is an intolerant bag of wind, too fragile to let so sharp a mind into their midst. Maybe. Or maybe they don't deserve to live. Oh what a wonderful fantasy I can have of my own. For every negative thought I have, there's a corpse dangling at the other end.
Reading this, most will be horrified to know what lurks just at the surface of my conscience mind. They'll say I need help or to be locked away for life. Why? For vocalizing my truth? Aren't we always taught not to lie? Why does society always say one thing, but do another? Isn't hypocrisy the worst form of lie?
In this world of make believe, where do I fit in? Others like me are impulsive in their actions and get caught. Me, I put my ideas into stories to vent the frustration and anger into a useful channel. If most of the stories we're told from childhood are violent and disturbing, why do we shun those very people who embrace that lifestyle? Anything different from society's norm is deemed dangerous and set in a queue to be destroyed at the next possible convenience.
As I sit here, having gone w/o sleep for the last few days due to the anger tightening my leg muscles and keeping me awake, I thought I could feel somewhat relieved at having put this into words. Usually, I feel better afterward, but not tonight. Tonight, this writing served as a nail file scratching at a brick wall. Oh, I'm sure there's some damage, but not enough to take notice. Tonight I am filled with an inner rage that I usually allow to fester inside me like a cauldron of boiling emotions. After I write, the cauldron simmers, but tonight it merely laughs.
Do you know what it's like to be laughed at for being different, to be shunned because people don't understand you? To be looked through as if you don't exist? A ghost in society free to walk wherever I want, I watch this self-gratified world bloat itself on greed and feed its ego with platitudes of self-inflicted greatness. They see me staring and something primitive inside them tells them to move away, to stop looking for fear of having their souls stolen with just my sight. As if I had that kind of super power. I study them, watching their social interactions, mirroring myself as best I can with their actions. No, I'm not like them, even when I try to be...and they can tell.
Put yourself in my shoes for a moment. Think of the many faces you interact with on a daily basis. Know them, their lives, their interests, their fears. Embrace them for being human and bond with them like your species tells you to do. I'm not from this race of being. I don't know what lies beneath my mask other than it scares most humans. I'm afraid to take it off for fear of losing control of what writhes inside. Maybe the world deserves to see my true form.
No, this did not make me feel better to write about. I feel sad and alone, angry and anxious. I can't find the time or the energy to write the way I should, the way I'm capable of doing. Instead, I let the feelings build up inside me and internalize the world. I know that if I had the energy to do what I should be doing that it wouldn't end the way the normals would expect. Sad, for all their connectedness to each other, they never connect with me. They ignore me, as I've said, often looking at me, but not seeing me.
Will they even know when I'm gone?
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