"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
The years that followed were accompanied with addiction, heartache, loss beyond any measurable term.
This boy grew to a man, a monster, a beast wrought on the path of destruction; self destruction.
If days were years, this life passed slowly, painfully. The aches, the undocumented ailments. Pain was life, suppression was a vacation at times. His eyes had seen all the love in the world, but they also bore witness to the breaking of a man. The thing he became, the thing he hated being, he conjured purposefully to seperate himself from any notion of sociatal acceptance. His voice was still heard, but it was hushed, dulled to a kind whisper. He looked down when he talked, knowing that the sparse encounters with the outside world, changed their view of him, but hardened his reserve to abstain from becoming a socialite. To communicate in any accomodating fashion with another person, even of the intellectual type, was most often merely a process of slowing down the process of arriving at summary that could have been concluded much faster in the quiet stillness of his own mind.
To learn is beautiful, to derive something original from a process considered fringe from the medium used, to think outside the box, and then to burn the box to ash.
Sex, drugs, pleasure, no longer his forte. Choosing instead pain, deprivation, self humiliation. The new art of self destruction had begun, kill the body slowly, but build the mind up strong.
Somehow his life will be some cautionary tale of mental illness, and lack of control. But this tale will be spun upon the very fabric he grew to hate. Only society in some crude fashion could summarize the whole of his parts, break down each section of his life, then come to some accepted conclusion of derangement on his behalf.
Sickness from the inside certainly paints a softer picture, you can feel the wallpaper peeling away, even try to patch it, but the body and mind can't fully be repaired. Is it easier to watch yourself decay, or to knowingly deny the process and wear a smile made from lies?
Benefits come from acceptance. He can knowingly create, form, and imagine things from new perspective; his perspective. Albeit a rather malfunctioned machine, his brain thought differently, it could take a path unpaved.
He feverishly built a world around himself allowing for creative impulse. Justifying his social anxiety, it allowed more time to create, to dream, and never was it slowed by the need to explain an idea.
Lonliness was an art he had mastered, shame, guilt, pure self loathing were but side effects of severing his own ties to anyone that could even begin to understand, or to care.
The afterworld do mean something, a hidden legacy of time spent meticulously toiling away on various prose. Mediums were but a channel, forget classification, forget being tied to some ideal of what expression should be. Just express.
Pain was certainly easier to communicate than happiness, and although oddly optimistic, his life was sinking in peril. Jaded views that weren't acceptable to speak, a gentleman at heart, but worn by the years of moral depravity that seemed to lurk in every dark recess that seemed to stalk him everywhere he went. Reinvention, the idea of the phoenix, born of it's own ashes, became a symbol to him. People live these cycles, they repeat what they know. If they find something different, they reject it, or attempt to twist it into a reality they've always known. This tendency was lost on him, to evolve the self is the easy part, it's to choke down the monotony of daily life that's painful.
"you're asleep" he thought to himself. "they all walk through this existence, without a clue". Even burrowed in his four walled self made prison, he saw the outside world. The suits, cars, lawns, it was their dream, a shared dream. Society creates this world, and spits out anything that doesn't accept it's ideals. Vibrations of matter, objects, even people. Why did any of it matter, if it was all just matter. She sees a chair, and he sees a chair, therefor there is a chair. While everyone else was asleep in their daily lives, he was awake during his sleeping life. Lucid, to be awake and aware. The control of ones mind can only truly be obtained if the dreamworld is understood. He sees a chair, he doesn't accept that it's a chair, now it's a cat. Dreamstate can be more rewarding than waking life, minutes pass as hours, and if the slightest annoyance materializes, a mere thought melts it from existence.
With a lifelong fascination of psychology, and a protected respect of the spiritual realm, dreams were a place he could test theory, cure phobia, and seek any gratification lacking in the flesh.
The sad fact that he grew to be an insomniac troubled him constantly. To be awake for four days was the cruel punchline, to the sad joke of his persona. Longing to be free in slumber, but stuck on this dirty, flaccid plane of being. Bound by other mans ideas of gravity, love and law. His brain would wind so tight, until it would unspool, incoherent thoughts, half finished projects. The longer you're awake, the less you accomplish, this is a raw truth he had come to learn all to well.
"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
Patience, you're almost there.