Inspite of being a sociopath, I'd never wish for anybody to be alone for the rest of his life.
It is only I, myself, who deserved to be alone because, I think, I'd handle it.
I was right.
I may be alone physically (actually, almost always), and at times I may feel blue but I'll never be always lonely because I've got me --- my alter-ago, my split personality. And my mind. I consider it apart from me. In fact, almost tempted to consider it my Master. Almost. I would have long gone if not for its interference.
The world has led me into the darkness, and thanks to my mind, my grim thoughts were turned into an art.
It's contempt that actually makes me tough inside. Solitude, that actually directs my life.
Emotions, for the most part, rattle me. I easily get distracted.
Affection, to me, is a pill... I might get an overdose if I take it in excess.
Ironically, I look so fragile and naive outside. I wonder if I am opaque around people. Nobody has looked through me, even more, read me beyond the line I've drawn. At some point, a few had attempted. But I didn't let them cross over.
How would I be believed if I tell somebody that I am not whole? Not incomplete but divided. Two halves. Two different halves.
Perhaps if I'm on the other side of the world, I'd be brought into a shrink right away. But I'm here. I'm not classified.
Those branded "crazy" or "mad" or "lunatic" are either put into asylum or are simply left alone wasted in the sidestreets.
No clinically insane person can be actually living among the sane... attending school, living in a decent rented house, going out with a couple of friends, drinking, having fun... and is actually enjoying reading fiction.
Certainly not a psycho. Just hallucinated...? Maladjusted...? Confused...? Simply weird...? Drugged? Or maybe the lack of it. Maybe just depressed. Maybe just suffering the consequence of having low levels of serotonin. Or maybe just pretending?!?
Crap. Do I honestly need to seek professional help?
I'm not afraid. I'm just hesitant.
The truth might kill me.
It is only I, myself, who deserved to be alone because, I think, I'd handle it.
I was right.
I may be alone physically (actually, almost always), and at times I may feel blue but I'll never be always lonely because I've got me --- my alter-ago, my split personality. And my mind. I consider it apart from me. In fact, almost tempted to consider it my Master. Almost. I would have long gone if not for its interference.
The world has led me into the darkness, and thanks to my mind, my grim thoughts were turned into an art.
It's contempt that actually makes me tough inside. Solitude, that actually directs my life.
Emotions, for the most part, rattle me. I easily get distracted.
Affection, to me, is a pill... I might get an overdose if I take it in excess.
Ironically, I look so fragile and naive outside. I wonder if I am opaque around people. Nobody has looked through me, even more, read me beyond the line I've drawn. At some point, a few had attempted. But I didn't let them cross over.
How would I be believed if I tell somebody that I am not whole? Not incomplete but divided. Two halves. Two different halves.
Perhaps if I'm on the other side of the world, I'd be brought into a shrink right away. But I'm here. I'm not classified.
Those branded "crazy" or "mad" or "lunatic" are either put into asylum or are simply left alone wasted in the sidestreets.
No clinically insane person can be actually living among the sane... attending school, living in a decent rented house, going out with a couple of friends, drinking, having fun... and is actually enjoying reading fiction.
Certainly not a psycho. Just hallucinated...? Maladjusted...? Confused...? Simply weird...? Drugged? Or maybe the lack of it. Maybe just depressed. Maybe just suffering the consequence of having low levels of serotonin. Or maybe just pretending?!?
Crap. Do I honestly need to seek professional help?
I'm not afraid. I'm just hesitant.
The truth might kill me.
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