The Obscure

My nightmare is to be strapped down to a table, and force-fed small morsels of bliss.

A strange thing has occured in my psyche, it appears the pain that I constantly live with is overwhelming the small power of the psych meds that were doing so well before this new wave of mental strangeness hit me. Again I feel the urge to pull my teeth out and chew my own face off with them, again I feel the disdain for we with the audacity to walk across the face of this planet on two legs. Perhaps the root of my self-loathing is that I loathe humanity in general, and I know that I myself am a part of that humanity.
Did you know that I pray nightly for my oddities to disappear, for my suicidal tendancies to go the way of all flesh (a phrase a picked up from my mother at a young age), did you know that I pray most fervently every night that I might find tranquility in something? Yet every morning I wake up with the same host of problems, every morning I wake up with the knowledge that I am not a normal person, that I am an anomaly. Even without the mental problems I was born with I would be an anomaly, I am the only person in this great nation with the headache problems that I have, I am the only person in this soon-to-be annihilated country with the physical dependancies on the medications I am taking, and the only one who, even with a large dosage, can find only small relief. Perhaps it is time for me to eat a bullet, perhaps it is time for me to give up this futile argument I have been having with the cosmos for as long as I can remember.

Unfortunately, I have work yet unfinished. I have yet to put down on paper the chronicles of the Grabban Zee Babban, a character I came up with on impulse whose personality borrows much from that of the Maud'dib. I have yet to do so many things that I wish I had the drive to finish. Perhaps that is the real reason why I am not dead yet, why I haven't committed one of the many acts I have thought of that would end this farce I have been living since the dawn of my existence. I do not kill myself because I know that there is a slim chance that someday I may get my brain out on paper. I do not eat that bullet because I know that the brains I would splatter all over my walls could do much more if they remained in my skull, if only I could find a way to get the drive to use them.
Right now, I am manic. There are several ways to fight my particular brand of mania, most of them illegal. I do not think I shall indulge in those tonight. Instead, I think that once I finish writing this thing that I did not want to write but felt compelled to by some possibly other-worldly force, I will take some clonodine and go to sleep. That would be ideal.

What of the rest of mankind? What do they do when they feel the demons begin to take over their thoughts and control their actions? Do they ignore it? Do they not even feel it? Am I that much of an anomaly that I am the only one on this hunk of disgusting rock who feels the demons infesting my mind? Perhaps I am. My uncle would have understood. Whenever I speak of him I want to cry, perhaps the grieving process takes longer than I thought it did. I loved him, you know. Despite the troubles he had he always took time out to love me back when we would see each other. I remember when I was a child, he could pick me up with one arm and lift me up so high that my back would touch the ceiling. If only he had discovered a better way to silence the demons, if only that were so, and he could have lived to tell me how to silence them myself.

I am suddenly filled with rage, I suddenly want nothing more than to destroy. Who knows what horrible things grow and fester deep within the hearts of men? Perhaps I would be doing the world a service by giving into my madness and destroying mankind. I think I could do it, I think I could end the world as we know it. I will not tell you why I think I could perform this abomination successfully, suffice it to say that I believe I could. I won't, though. Instead I will spend my life trying to quiet the demons that surround me, that fill up my mind until their whispered words drive me temporarily mad.
I do not expect a single one of you to understand these strange words, but they had to be said; I would have preferred them to be kept private, but in these matters I have no choice. There is Another Man, you see. He hides behind those demons and manipulates me, and there is no way I can overcome him, for he is a part of myself.

Yes, despite my medications I am once again stricken with the strange insanity I have come to fear so intensely. Fear so intensely, yes, I fear. I fear this particular strangeness of self that I know is limited to me and me alone. And I suppose I must remain alone, for no one in their right mind could come to care for a madman of this magnitude. Raskolnikov feel in love with his prostitute, and they found a way to cleanse each other's souls in their love. But that was fiction, and this is reality. The truth of the matter is, after all is done with, despite the affections I may have for some of those close to me, I shall probably follow in the footsteps of my forefathers. I shall die alone and afraid, and the demons will not leave me until my very soul flees my body.
Why do I write these things? I ask myself this, every time I come here. I right them because I hate myself, and I believe that my friends should know why I hate myself, and they in turn shoud learn to hate me as well. I have no worth to society, I have no worth to anyone. I am a sad and lonely coward, and that is why, despite whatever intelligence you people may think I have, I will always remain the least of you. When I die they will erect my body as a statue before the gates of hell, and beneath me in flaming letters it will read, "Behold, he who is the least of you. Behold, he who is the lowest of the low."
Farewell, dear friends and companions. You're friendship and comfort, whoever small or trivial it may seem to you, is one of the few things that keeps my relative sanity in check. For that, I am enternally grateful.

Do not put too much stock in this post, as I said, I am in a manic phase right now. Or perhaps I have reached a new depth of despair? Regardless, it is not a John of sound mind speaking right now, hopefully next time, it will be. Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.