He is lying down in his bed. His mind is overloaded with worries. Worries about life. Worries about death. Worries about who he is. Worries about what he is. Worries about why he is. All his friends call him crazy because he doesn't like money. They say evil spirits have taken over his body. They call him lunatic. They make him feel unique. But they don't know. They don't understand. They don't understand that they live in different worlds. They are so blind folded by the illusions of life that they do not know where they are. He doesn't blame them. He blames God. He knows God can open all these people's eyes but He choses not to. He doesn't understand the ways of God but he respects them because he has faith in
God. He still persists to be who he is despite what all his friends say. They had taken him to countless psychiatrists. They said he had Diogenes syndrome.  But he knows that no such syndrome exists. It was just another word for different. But they wouldn't understand that. They never understand anything. He was alone in his world. No one other than him and his ghosts lived there.  His mind was never empty. He was always occupied. He didn't know anything else. His skill was thinking. Too bad that skill wasn't appreciated where he was. And just like that he killed himself. Doing what he does best. Thinking. He thought himself to his own death. And now he understood everything. Who he was. What he was. Why he was. He got it all. Everything is so clear to him now. He no longer has to think. He is finally at peace.