DESULTORY REFLECTIONS
Desultory Reflections
20th April 2019
3:25 am
The setting is the same. I'm spread out in my bed, my posture stuck somewhere between sitting and lying. I'm alone in my room, in the whole apartment in fact, alone as that time before I was born, a loneliness that's calling out to me, the only voice echoing along the walls, akin to death. The clock's ticking as it's supposed to, but I don't turn on the light to check the time, because the darkness has a solemnity about it, it's radiating a pseudo peacefulness that's pretty much impossible to attain in one's lifetime, and I'm reluctant to disturb it. Instead I tap on my phone and turn it off instantly. It's 3:26 am. I light another cigarette, dragging death in with a desperation that's masking my hopelessness. I release the smoke with a sigh, trailing my fingers through the smoke rings dancing in the dark, like midsummer shadows trailing in my past, before eventually flickering away, in tandem with my thoughts. It's 3:29 am in my place. 6:59 am in Tokyo. 12:59 am in Bahrain. 3 o'clock in Sacramento. Time's flying by. But I'm not fast enough. No matter how much I pretend to be stable, to be normal, to be aware of my responsibilities, to appear to stroll through life, to attempt to right the innumerous wrongs, I can't - not at this moment. For right here, right now, in the state between reality and dreams, I'm vulnerable. I can't hide from the condemning truth. I can't pass off as not corrupt. No no no no, I'm a villain alright. The main villain in my own story. I'm a vagabond stumbling through the recesses of my past, lurking in unconscious compartments of dreamscape, searching for something; for anything, for a piece of you within me. All I find is the smoke. The graying numbness copulating with my hollowness. I'm a thing of sinewy horror and frozen blood. The title of this monograph isn't quite right. These sleep deprived sessions, these waitings for the coming of light, these dreams of redemption and absolution, the hope that you might one day be here, the faith that everything will be alright, they are all treacherous deceivings conjured up by my unconscious consciousness in an attempt to hide the abysmal truth: all I'm doing now is letting out my shadows, one way or another. There's no stopping it, so with a sigh of determination, I turn passive and let it dominate me: for I'm the monster and the monster is me. And it's crying out for more blood. I throw away the cigarette butt and rise, taking a moment to glance at the bodies piled up under the bed - the thing killed my family a couple of days ago. I breathe in the stench of rot and glimpse at the unseeing eyes of my brother: he looks so surprised. He probably never saw it coming. I(t) take(s) out the knife from his chest, and lick(s) at the dried blood. I'm(it's) enamored by the taste of it again. I(t) rise(s), desperation stark in my(its) eyes, and ride(s) out into the night: who'll play with me(it) next? Yes. Yes yes yes yes, it will be you, my beloved. I'm(it's) coming. Wait for me.
( - diary of a psychopath)
20th April 2019
3:25 am
The setting is the same. I'm spread out in my bed, my posture stuck somewhere between sitting and lying. I'm alone in my room, in the whole apartment in fact, alone as that time before I was born, a loneliness that's calling out to me, the only voice echoing along the walls, akin to death. The clock's ticking as it's supposed to, but I don't turn on the light to check the time, because the darkness has a solemnity about it, it's radiating a pseudo peacefulness that's pretty much impossible to attain in one's lifetime, and I'm reluctant to disturb it. Instead I tap on my phone and turn it off instantly. It's 3:26 am. I light another cigarette, dragging death in with a desperation that's masking my hopelessness. I release the smoke with a sigh, trailing my fingers through the smoke rings dancing in the dark, like midsummer shadows trailing in my past, before eventually flickering away, in tandem with my thoughts. It's 3:29 am in my place. 6:59 am in Tokyo. 12:59 am in Bahrain. 3 o'clock in Sacramento. Time's flying by. But I'm not fast enough. No matter how much I pretend to be stable, to be normal, to be aware of my responsibilities, to appear to stroll through life, to attempt to right the innumerous wrongs, I can't - not at this moment. For right here, right now, in the state between reality and dreams, I'm vulnerable. I can't hide from the condemning truth. I can't pass off as not corrupt. No no no no, I'm a villain alright. The main villain in my own story. I'm a vagabond stumbling through the recesses of my past, lurking in unconscious compartments of dreamscape, searching for something; for anything, for a piece of you within me. All I find is the smoke. The graying numbness copulating with my hollowness. I'm a thing of sinewy horror and frozen blood. The title of this monograph isn't quite right. These sleep deprived sessions, these waitings for the coming of light, these dreams of redemption and absolution, the hope that you might one day be here, the faith that everything will be alright, they are all treacherous deceivings conjured up by my unconscious consciousness in an attempt to hide the abysmal truth: all I'm doing now is letting out my shadows, one way or another. There's no stopping it, so with a sigh of determination, I turn passive and let it dominate me: for I'm the monster and the monster is me. And it's crying out for more blood. I throw away the cigarette butt and rise, taking a moment to glance at the bodies piled up under the bed - the thing killed my family a couple of days ago. I breathe in the stench of rot and glimpse at the unseeing eyes of my brother: he looks so surprised. He probably never saw it coming. I(t) take(s) out the knife from his chest, and lick(s) at the dried blood. I'm(it's) enamored by the taste of it again. I(t) rise(s), desperation stark in my(its) eyes, and ride(s) out into the night: who'll play with me(it) next? Yes. Yes yes yes yes, it will be you, my beloved. I'm(it's) coming. Wait for me.
( - diary of a psychopath)
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