I’m dying—it is the ultimate fare is it not? Lonely—I am alone and I don’t argue my end. My story is pointless, redundant, and solitary. Well, considering this will be the only time I’ll get to share it, I will. I had a point, I had a reason, I had lived. So what if no one but you hears this? Do I care? In my world, none, and I mean none, would care, so why should I? A chance like this is rare.
Sure, most of you would think I was raised in some hellish environment, something unbelievable, something astonishing to hear. You probably think I have come from a broken home, physically abused as a child, raped or sexually assaulted by someone I trusted at a young age. You probably think I loved with an alcoholic father or a drugged up mother. But that is only because you want to believe that. You don’t want to think someone like me can exist, someone raised by loving parents and a caring sister—someone from a healthy household—could and did kill without regret or giving her actions a second thought. It is this psychotic world that tries to conform people like me, to label us and categorize out motive. Do you think I have a motive? Do you want to know my motive? Do you want to know why I do what I do? Age quod agis, I am told. So I do what I do best, and I enjoy it—I take it you don’t believe me. Most cannot so don’t feel special.
The insights of my thoughts are obviously different that yours. The fact that I throw my ticking clock off the consul near my bed because it is hard for me to sleep at night with that constant sound, reminding me of the passing time makes me different that you –right? It is my logical defense for throwing my clock against the wall that sets me apart.
Or perhaps it is my very own realization and need for silence. I am an artist—what explanation do I need? I sit up late into the morning writing, plugged into the music of my thoughts—writing. I am a writer. I spend days with my ballpoint brush. I doodle my thoughts in thirty lines constantly. You are wondering if I am constricted by these lines are you not? Then I ask, do I constrict you by them?
From a very young age, I had a passion for writing, I had billions of journals, filled with my fantasies of the lives I wanted. Psychosis—my mother called it. Well, psychotic or not, I kept writing. For days I would keep to myself, head in my journals, exploring the lines of my characters. As time passed, my stories became more morbid, and less and less of a fantasy, evolving into the reality of mental instability.
Mental rendition and incapability run consistently through my family, and do I used them for my inspiration.
