I awoke today to a feeling of strangeness such as I have never experienced.
A feeling that I am not me, will never be me, could never be me,
but that I am a disease. A sickness. A plague of the mind.
A feeling of such hopelessness and despairity that my own existence
was questioned. Was ridiculed. Was proven again and again to be pointless.
And I am getting worse, so it would seem. Yes, it would seem
as if I have (finally) begun my slow descent into madness.
I do not welcome such, no, I try to push and keep it at bay,
I try so hard. But I know that it is inevitable,
for what else could there ever be for me? And to you,
run, I say. Run away for I am the sickness, the plague.
Run away, for I will destroy all that you hold dear, and if it is I,
then my. My oh my, the job has already begun!
And my life, what more could be desired? I have worked,
and worked and worked, and am in a marvelous position, but
I am not happy. I feel that my life is wasted on me, and
so, it is tempting to destroy that as well. Why not?
But no, I will try to hold it together. I will stretch
myself so thin that, when I fail, all in
my life will turn to chaos. All will be destroyed. But until then,
I will try. Until then, I will live.
Just as best I can.