Day 1

I'm attempting to chronicle my life, though so many past attempts have failed to do so. I shiver to remember the memories that have been forgotten because of my idle hands. Were I to die today, there would be relatively few traces of my existence. Not that that fact should matter much, because so far, my existence has been devoid of true meaning. On a day to day basis, I have had to scrounge up some task, some ambition, some faulty dream far off in the distance to keep my internal motor running.1

But lately I've been wondering, contemplating, pondering, what were to happen on the day that I could no longer feasibly conceive of a purpose for continuing my stumbling blindly through the darkness in search of an everlasting light? Would that be the definition of death? But for that rhetorical question to be so, then my current being must be living. I am not living. Maybe to a physician with tests, tools and a fancy Phd, I could possibly be classified as a living organism. But to the guardian of my inner sanctum, nothing could be further from the truth.2

So how does one going about becoming alive? With a beating heart? I used to believe that love could cure all ailments. NOw I know this is not the case. Before one can love another, one must love themself. The way one perceives him or herself is constantly fluctuating, so that true love of another being must be utterly impossible. I believe that this state of being, life if you will, should be dedicated to not only discovering oneself, but loving oneself in the best of his or her ability. The soul is dying within the confines of the mortal's body. It twists and turns, banging against the rib-cage bars, longing for freedom to expand and become all entirety that reality has ever known. 3

I feel that the glass dome of my mind has shattered. I feel the pieces slicing into my soul, destroying everything from the inside out. The truth is this: The human condition has always been linked with sadness, despair, pain and utter and sheer madness. No one embraces what is destined to come, hiding behind lies of happiness, peace and love. Without sadness, happiness could not exist.4

Apathy has devoured the youth. Before long, love will be just a term used to describe a vague emotion from the past used to convey affection for another. Love will be dead, in all states of life. Suicide will run rampant, not because of anything that has to do with the outside realm, but because of the thunderous waves of turmoil within our own spirits. We are all broken.5

A rottenness controls me. I can resist it no longer. There is no way to resist the truth. I embrace it, not as madness, but as genious. It is my only comfort in this place that denies my existence. I am alone save for myself. I will come, in time, to understand that that is all I need. Until then, I bide my time while I try to avoid being shaped by everything around me. Now I will fight back. Now I will shape those around me. And when I emerge as the final victor, I will sink triumphantly into my loneliness with the disturbed smile that peeks rears it's ugly head ever once and while. I will find myself as I was, as I am, and as I will always be. Alone.