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I once dreamed I was falling, the hands I once trusted pulled away.  Even my own lost somewhere given up on catching my balance. In my dream I saw a clouded figure, down and dark, I had great sympathy for him.  He seemed so helpless and vulnerable to the worldís demise, his rage pent inside him and his fears consuming any dignity he carried.  Things went clear and I saw I was watching myself; it was me, the one burning inside.  I was the candle in a dark thick room, watching the shadows crawl around me.  I chose to swim in the deep end of the darkness for it felt more welcome.  The light has shunned me away as it had burned my eyes.  Friends, it was just a pointless word without a definition.  I was trapped in my own dark foggy mind, making a new friend with insanity, my only alliance.  People around me felt wrong, wrong in a way that they were no longer seen as a means of socializing, but a frustration eating at my skin.  I'd hear them talking about me, even though they werenít.  The lack of my mention made me create it, a voice which was not there. 

They'd talk about normal stuff, but all I could hear was the screaming in my head, the endless howl of rage captivated in my skull.  I could hear voices, was it my voice?  Did I snap yet?  Who cares, itís a voice, a voice that will listen to me. 

Possible understand the sickness that crawls under my skin, and runs in my veins.  I urged for this didn't I?  I let myself fall even, all that I let go. Soon the voices told me to hurt others, why shouldn't I share this pain? It's too strong to handle myself, and I'm defined selfish for imposing it?  Let them have some, some more, until they swim in it.  You kept this fire going with your ignorance. You made me this, and you call me psychotic? I am the weirdo?  I some how fell with no one there to catch me, no one assumed that I needed caught.  I hit the ground and busted any sense of morality.  No one wants to take the responsibility, so I wanted revenge.  My friends soon turned under my blade of sorrow, cut to the knife of despair. The blood rejuvenating my anger, building it up, and letting me swim deeper in the dark corner I once locked away.  I started then to hurt them, watch them bleed like I Did but physically for them.  While my wounds were all inside silently draining me to death, it somehow filled the gap watching them react and die.  I once felt it was wrong to do such things, how immoral to take a life.  But my life? Am I selfish now?  Is this what you made me?  I was so kind before, so weak I was.  People think I am psychotic, how jealous they are.  I have reached a point which they may never get to. I accomplished something! They are jealous, selfish bastards.  I have once in my life done something great and they want to call it theirs.  Now Iím something they all agree on, a word they define unstable people with.  Pity they have no idea of it, being lost inside your thoughts all day.  

Beginning to understand why evil exists, because this so called good has ignorance.

Good people don't listen to us trouble ones. No, they only taunt us with silence. 

Crazy people are a burden to them, abnormalities are cast aside.  Elitist they are, we are a virus, and we might plague them.  A small conversation with us might take them down the wrong road, might make them one of us. So avoid all contact, eyes and mouth. Am I insane? I question my sanity; I can't seem to think I am.  I know the line between right and wrong and wanted to cross it. I talk to myself in my head; no one can invade these conversations.  I get angry when people talk to me now; there is no room for their rubbish.  I only want to hear my thoughts and the voices, telling me to hurt them. Silence the nonstop "concern" they claim to have.  For so long I let others hurt me, for so long I hurt myself. I tore away my confidence, looking in the mirror day to day. I despised my image, and the body I was in.  I looked real close in the mirror to see in the eyes, in the very soul of me.  I cursed myself with a glare that would haunt you, bring your fears to life. I could feel the bleeding inside, the begging to be thought of by another mind besides my own.  But in the end I was alone, standing in my own shadow.  This shaded figure now becomes confusing, was it me? I can't remember if it was.  Perhaps it was another, my mind was just playing tricks on me, and yes that's it.  I had awoken as the figure got further away, my body covered in sweat as my insides took a dive.  I realized the dream I had may have been a message, but I had no clue on what I could do. Coming back to reality I sighed, why couldn't my dreams be warm and gentle? 

Even my mind has no room for me to feel good; the space is getting smaller and smaller. I take a deep breath and eat breakfast, another day ahead of me, but the dream I wonít forget, and will not mention.  It will be my little secret; yes Iíll lock it away.  Time to talk to my few friends again, and time to wear my mask and pretend.

 

                                                                                    - The Dream