What the fuck...
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is that I have murdered half the people I know - women I've slept with, people I've lived with, my own family, even myself more than a dozen times? Why do buildings crumble, cities burn, and plains run deep with the blood that flows through their own new visceral appearance of flesh?
Walls come alive, great yawning mouths consume me, girls step from corridors steeped in their own gore, and officials gladly gnaw their limbs from their own bodies while great sweeping grins crawl over their lips and spread their teeth shining towards the glistening red suns above them. My best laid plans for staying alive are dashed to the ground by hunting wildmen who have crucified the dog and removed its head in the time it took the police to drive away.
Murder is a standard... Hell is open... And no one seems to care...
The human brain, this impressive machine that for all we know is the universe's only source of creativity, ingenuity, and love, is more readily the only source of evil as well. The mind IS Pandora's Box. Each night when we sleep, we give a peak inside, and all the horrors we know, and worse still, those we don't, spill out, over our subconscious, over our souls. They leave their dark stain. Though we live through it all, safe in our beds, it stains us, and for the rest of our days, we know what lurks in our minds. You let nothing out, you went in for a visit.
So what the fuck...
Every night is an exercise in self-destruction, watching your life get picked apart by the random pieces of lurking doubt, anger, and fear that you have so lovingly nurtured through your years.
This is my Pandora's Box - my fears, my horrors, my tragedies relived and recorded here, where a pen was not fast enough to record them by paper.
"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown..."
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