I feel as though my written word proves more eloquent than the way I am prone to speak, pondered and devised through more time to think. A mind full (not mindful) of so many images screaming to get out: memories, wants, frustrations, questions, confusion, love and hate. The ghost of Hitler, crowned with barbed wire, speaking through a mouthful of godflesh. Is that shocking enough? Does that grab one’s attention and give them a dark image to sensationalize? Can we even rationalize this? Parables of the Devil within. This stain on my humanity. The darker side of spirit. Does what I say, write, and think coincide? I do get it: I, too, find the darker side of human nature entertaining. It is why I prefer to write horror and extreme ramblings, to get really sick and twisted with malevolent fantasy—real-life experience sprinkled throughout. I can surely be heinous, but this is not new, nor is it shocking; people have been heinous for ages. Real people doing real things. Real people with real feelings of doubt, fear, pain, heartache, love, desire, philanthropy.
What of compassion?
What of sensitivity?
How much more must I be bled to atone for what I have done?
A lifelong road map of experiences and decisions leading to a 55-year-old man paying for the actions of the person he was at 37. Why must the past 18 years be overlooked? What of those decisions anew? Does the growth go without being seen? A doubtful child rebelling against fear and pain, one day coming to feel the heartache, the love, a desire to change, filling the void with philanthropic actions. Does this rate as boring? Will confessing that I dislike most individuals pique interest again? Some have a tendency to bring me to the point of hatred. Then yet, how oxymoronic might it be to have a profound admiration for the overall human race? Might such contrast only prove me human after all? Will it grant the power to empathize with those who dislike or hate me? All of us, complex bags of flesh, controlled by inner chemical reactions and electrical pulses. Cerebra battling impulses brought about through hippocampus and amygdala instinct. So simple to embrace the primal, much harder to glorify reason. Where is the dirge for who I used to be? Why is the destruction released through physical action yesterday so much more appealing than that which flows through pen and page today? Why must there be real physical or mental pain before many will pay attention? My pain and suffering are buried so deep that I no longer endure penance for what has been done. Very seldom does it surface to briefly breach the numbness I feel. Deadened eyes showing no more signs of life. I am a walking corpse.
