Let me be upfront about this. I've never been really great with the whole, keeping in contact thing. Toward the end of my life spent alive, I recall fighting, juggling, pushing myself to make sure I'd never be alone. I was so alone back then. Alone with so much pain. So many demons. Not important now. After dying, or perhaps just retreating into something less, I no longer felt the same urge to fend off that same isolation. To be 100% honest, I couldn't really feel anything. If someone no longer filled their purpose, I just dropped them. I, in a sense, embraced the dark and went on in life concerned solely with one divine goal in mind. If any aspect of my past came back into frame, whatever they required would be foraged from whatever memories lie on the thin surface and on I would continue with the mission. Looking back, it was perhaps the only way I could've survived up to now.
I am filled with rage. I want to destroy something, anything, to make it feel like I feel inside. I am a danger to others were I to ever loose sight of the path I've chosen. So, I turn it inward. I flay what could possibly be left of a soul with all regrets, misgivings, pain, sorrow. This mostly goes unnoticed of course. It's one of the many common traits of humanity I came to in my youth. Unless one is themself immersed in darkness, people readily turn a blind eye to it. People desire no part of it and even if the signs are there, convince themselves they aren't. I know this to be true. Before it was just a trend I could visually distinguish. Before long it became a trend I was to experience first hand. And still, watch occur day after day. That aside, due to my inadequacies it simply slips my mind that from time to time I'm required to keep up with friends and family. Were I sincere with myself I'd admit at this juncture that they all seem alien. Worse yet, they rather resemble enemies. As frightening as that perception should be, it isn't however. That is what brought me to this. What this really is. The descent.
All creative types that end up with horrid deaths seem to have the same thing in common. Their progression away from stability is quite visible. Quite well documented. The strength of their words begins to stagger. Their art, less refined, more crude, chaotic. Their works more esoteric, less infused with pathos. The signs are all there but only after an end examination does truth become apparent. I recall a moment long ago, in a life barely with the fight to continue, a body ages younger, when I was faced with a tough decision. The decision to break loose the restraints and kill. The quest, to develop the resolve to take a life. Not just any of course. The life of my tormentor. The one who quite easily might be the catalyst for my own personal descent. My kin, my brother. Looking back now, I realize just what an abomination I am. I comprehend just how wrong I came out. I wonder if this is what a human is. If this is what a human feels. Such darkness. Such misery. Such emptiness. Such, truly, indifference.
I really am terrible at "staying in touch." I no longer know what to say. I no longer feel the attachments to such brittle, strained relationships. Memories of the life what I currently am never lived are all that hold me to the debt left by past interactions. It's how this is even possible. She dug up this rock. I share it with you. Such the lurid creature, bellowing such horrors for you that I am. I just want to be honestly sorry.
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Hearing: Continental Drift by OZMA
Tuesday, November 22, 2011 at 3:42AM 
