This life has turned into a series of unfinished scribbles, old routines, disillusioned hours, and a promise of more to come.
Jane, I have to give myself a hundred reasons just to get out of bed. The dreams have evolved from random nonsense to hellish nightmares.
It’s an interesting turn of events, Jane. Not that I’m surprised it came to this. There was always a promise of more to come. There still is.
Jane, I used to have a bland personality. I didn’t care about social interactions or the small talk of the learned ones.
I was shy, awkward, scared, unfamiliar, untrained in how to act in situations and circumstances involving people. And I had accepted that. That’s just who I was.
I didn’t have to think about my actions, I could predict my next moves with my eyes closed. Every time. That’s the thing, Jane. I was predictable to myself. I had control over myself.
But, lately, things have changed, Jane. That predictability is gone. I have turned rogue on myself. There’s no control over my actions.
What am I going to say or do?
What am I gonna scribble or jot down?
There’s no knowing anymore.
I’ve turned rogue, Jane, and it has given birth to a certain kind of excitement, passion, intensity inside of me. It’s enchanting, vibrating, like a current running through my body.
It almost feels like I am having a seizure. Like an invasion right into my soul. It’s a feeling of a thousand orgasms, Jane, albeit momentarily. But, at that moment, I dance to whatever tune it conjures up for me.
Yes, Jane, sometimes I jump, sometimes I dance, sometimes I scribble down random words and sentences that transform into lawless poems. I am scared of this feeling, Jane, but I still love it.
It’s like an uncontrollable rage where you lose yourself to blinding energy. It makes me feel alive, truly.
And it possibly saves me from jumping deep into the abyss.
I love it, Jane. I am scared of it and I still love it.
But, things often get a little dysfunctional, Jane. I am not talking about out there. I am talking about ‘in here’. Right inside this fucked up head.
I would love to tell you how I feel exactly, right now, right at this very moment when everything gets jumbled, muddled, and thrown into disarray.
But the thoughts, they keep overlapping, sometimes twice, thrice in a split second. It’s impossible to pin one down.
The feeling, the mood, the zone, they change so swiftly, so rapidly that I am a mere spectator, standing on the outside, trying to comprehend the volatility and fickleness of all of it.
Of course, the trying only brings more failures and disappointments with a bag full of anxiety joining in the fun almost invariably. It’s such a pleasure!
But still, I try.
Despite the failure, disappointments, anxieties, and frustrations. I try.
Because there are still a few moments when I am human. A normal, sane, honest-to-God human. And apparently, this is what a sane man does. Struggle, survive, repeat.
And then there are times when I move beyond all of this, Jane.
When I’ve been pushed to the edge of my sanity a thousand times and the willingness to go back finally fades out silently in the background.
At that moment, there’s nothing else left to do but to jump into oblivion or turn into something I don’t quite understand yet.
It’s not up to me as the survival instinct takes command and the second option chooses me. I believe you’ve met my other side, Jane.
It’s not a case of dissociative personality. There is no Patricia, no Beast, no strange tenant fighting to take control.
I am conscious, Jane. Always.
I can feel him rising. I can feel him entering the room.
And I don’t resist it.
I enjoy it.
The potential of my evil scares me, Jane. Not because I lose control, but because I know I don’t.
Yes, I let him take over sometimes. But I always hold the strings.
He is my beast, my demon, my devil. And somehow, he has become my muse.
But, don’t you worry, Jane. I won’t let him take over me. Not yet.
There are moments when I am still sober, still human. There are moments when this life still has some meaning, a willingness to struggle just for the sake of it.
But, Jane, there’s only so much you can take before you give in.
There’s only so much you can suffer in this life, Jane, before you start enjoying the evil…
The kind of writing that shows up uninvited, barefoot, at 3 a.m.
