Before proceeding know this: I fear the darkness within my persona almost more than I can bear, thus, this confession will be, in essence, lying by omission. Archived in my heart is the record of who I really am, but I’m unable to retrieve, nor attain this information. I seem to be walking among human beings impersonating the skin, movements, and anguish that I am supposed to feel. My relationship with myself no longer consists of a dialogue most people would consider rational. I have descended into some region of the ninth circle now, encapsulated by ice. I am devoid of any emotion, save lust, greed, fear, and the urgent longing to be free from their constant companionship, which is the mark and reminder that, ultimately, I am capable of betrayal. I posses no muse, no love, no particular reason to keep breathing air into my lungs. It happens against my will, but because I am secretly vain I remain grateful. I dream nightmares of black oceans whose sea floors are awaiting my arrival, one that was expected much earlier. I feel weight between the synapses of my mind, immense beyond my own comprehension. Ambient transitions sound my arrival and departure in the film that is my life. I constantly attempt morphing into a divine being, luminous and pure, blinding to the human imagination. I have not succeeded. I have never been in love, that I can remember, hence, I do not remember living; I can only see glimpses of fragments, snapshots if you will. I cannot speak of my parents with myself. I miss everything and understand nothing. I cannot cry. Clouds inspire me to try and resist the ease of becoming a danger towards myself. I am more narcissistic than anyone I have ever met, except my own reflection. The inconsistency I am is alarming and I am afraid that I might already be letting go. I push people who want me away, and want people I have never met. I cannot explain myself in a way that can justify my existence. I care for dogs more than most humans. I have indirectly helped kill innocent women and children of a people that I did not respect, or for that matter even remotely understand, until nearly a year after their deaths. I would trade my life for theirs, but it still would be a gesture of vanity; one last effort to secure my allegiance with a power or collective consciousness that could absolve me of my remorse. Factions inside me are plotting takeovers in a bid to control their host. Unraveling myself has become an obsession, overpowering my symptoms of gynecomania. I write songs that I despise, yet, my desire for validation forces me, often against my better judgment, to proliferate them. The void that lies behind me also lies in front of me. There are no colors, nor discernable shapes guiding my descent, only grey upon grey. I would give anything to feel real love, the kind narcotics stir within me. Unwavering. I’m not sure of what is real or what I believe. I do not see truths, only variations and half truths, and I swim in them. I have self inflicted torture to remind myself that I am still alive, further scarring my body deepening the divide between myself and society. I know that one day everything will be burnt and blow away; time and water will win the war of attrition and our heirs will also perish without a viable answer. This changes nothing. Listen. To. Me.
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