Having it begun like all neurotic, ambition-driven heretics, in thought, in perception, in power. Save that my motivation does not involve power, but a vision of a truly magnificent end to the everlasting, interminable quest for something with wordless impossibility, and seeing it realized by me. Thus, I could scarcely be called a totalitarian tyrant; ruthless in conquering a goal, rather I shall be a savior; creating more than God ever will by sheer elimination of obstacles.Going into this absolute devotion, I, and many would have concluded that I'd run rampant with madness, no sooner, and inject myself with a fatal dosage of cyanide. But truly, on terms of relieving suicide, I'd haunt my own soul in death eternally. And while outside, others of my age spent their allowance on video arcades and milk duds, I found company in the solitude of my room in the attic.
Some way along those thin lines of morbid darkness and buzzing air vents, I put my foot across the fringes where no nerves should tread. That brought me to a complete halt before accelerating again through light. It's like under going meiosis and it robbed me of any mental capabilities I might have had for some period. I'd stand awake, blinking in the universal, fluorescent, artificial light of conformity, yet I did not linger there. I entered through the iris and sauntered the veins until I poked the celestial matter of all my existence. Watching it was the most breath-taking part. I could almost feel it while I rested there, zoning, whirling around in the vertigo of an exhilarating vortex. I'd call it a new frame of sight, but you and all of you would call it insanity perhaps. But I did not hate it. Luminescent shadows would initially form a perfectly clarifying picture of some other world to come. If I saw it, I experienced an impulse, which drove me with voices of predominance unheard or seen, echoing for me to do something, to put it into practice. At some point, I felt it was in my hands of such survival subjects.
It became more often that I put on the traveling headgear to this other consciousness, or not so much as it should be named. It had always improved itself so much more efficiently than the place where I felt the concrete pavement of desolate streets. People, not half as misanthropic, but possessing twice as much heart as that which I may touch. But it caused very much a tightening around my cerebrum, and it evolved as a necessity rather than a frequent jaunt as I did to the city. My days there seemed so much more plentiful, in accomplishment, association, in even relationships. Sitting there idly in the darkness simply didn't cut it. I felt that the dooming sound of ticking hands remained frozen where I had looked it milleniums ago. It begun as a blessing, it would prove, no later, to be merely the beginning of my delusions and languid demise.
I suppose I've permanently split myself in two equal halves. I rose physically in a material bed, still feeling the sheets; yet not recognizing it since, mentally, I'm somewhat removed to identify or respond to any stimuli. This struck me as a tad frightening as living in two separate worlds might, in actuality, be the end of my sanity as that of Dr. Jekyll and his id. Is it anything but impossible that such an event would occur in the realms of within these mere cell walls? Can the human psyche uphold the presence of two mortal consciousness? Or will it elapse chronically and progressively steer me into the oblivion of padded walls and gelatinous foods. Is it suffice to say that our plebeian, systematic lives, lived within concrete restrictions, be the sole explanation for my secret yearning of this other life of mine? That is truly something that I will not, nor want to be acquainted with.
It utterly amazes me still every time when I enter that door of my addiction. It is almost like turning a statue around to realize that the backside is really a darker, perhaps a little more horrific, reflection of the original cuts and curves. In a more metaphorical sense, like an elusive passage way into the interior from another wise banal entrance, mediocre in disguise, yet still seemingly real. Upon my musings, you, as humans, retain the aura that keeps the wheels in my head on an analytic retrogression. Churning out pointless results that proves to be as volatile as any previous faces of the moon and its mutability. I could hardly begin, but nevertheless, attempted to steal away into the forbidden chambers of the nefarious, if not so forth, already quarter swallowed by my own games and toils of day.
I wish I could blame anything but my very own condition of mind for this hopeless pattern of non-linear connotations, but the fact of the matter is, I cannot. I'm almost appalled by the sheer concentration of multifarious complexities that is presently stored in the oasis of my head. I serious wonder about the absurdity of my cephilization, sparkling ever so wondrously, passing these hallucinations that would eventually drive my head through the solace of the noose…just as it will every ones'.