A Vision


Before anything existed there was that which is everything and nothing. From within came a need to recreate itself. The universe chose to separate that which was solid from that which was liquid. The waters separated from the land and continents and islands and oceans and rivers took shape. It then decided to ignite suns and stars throughout the universe. From this third creation was born a fourth, air and space, which would allow matter to be separated into planets and galaxies, and most importantly, serve as a tool to create life...

The end of the world didn’t come at all as I expected — not with lightning, nor with the sunrise the next morning. As all the world shifted into motion and the noon sun dried out the streets, I lay still in a familiar bed, holding an angel as I once did before.

It was as if a figment of my imagination suddenly came to life, then stepped out to me and identified with my pain and sorrow. Such an innocent but knowing smile pierced my soul; a delicately sharp hand touched my own broken fingers. Those moments spent in search of a gaze such as hers were not wasted.

Memories, no longer painful, echo inside my head, fierce reminders of a world I can’t go back to. Denizens of this universe wait like specters as I patiently rearrange myself. I suppose with change comes the willpower needed to make myself stronger. Perhaps then I can lower the shields that have barricaded my soul against the fear that encompasses me. Hope, a weak ideal, is all that remains of my old person. Friends and lovers have come and gone like seasons cut short by disasters. I can no longer depend on the fragile emotions that once drove me.

Love, an empty word, has been replaced by affection and compassion. I had nearly thought my heart devoid of these feelings when she first began to visit me in this asylum. Drawings on my wall change like the seasons, warping my words as if they were code. Messages of simple and caring thoughts speak to me of a like-minded soul trapped in a past and future I know is my world. The symbols of my life tell a story that no one but she could understand.

For my entire life I’ve hated the world — everybody and everything around me. When she held me all of the fear and hate seemed to vanish. It felt as if we two were the only people in all the universe. That feeling was so new to me — I’ve searched so long for it — that I couldn’t help but fall in love. She helped me change parts of myself I didn’t know I could, only by showing me why. The part of me that I loathe also disappears in her arms and I do not understand why it cannot always be like that.

Looking into her eyes I saw the light of heaven. I had seen that image so many times in my dreams that I took it for granted she was the one that could save me from myself. I didn’t expect I could be so wrong about something that could wrap itself around my soul and feel so right. Once again I had let myself go, plunging unnoticed into eternity.

I began this descent into the streets of this city from a place that was secure, a home distant enough to make this quest a pilgrimage. I left behind a loving family for worthless acquaintances. I abandoned a stable environment in which my basic needs were fulfilled to pursue higher spiritual goals. I traded those at a price that demands I live every day based on the animal instinct of survival.

I have been to the lowest of the lows, and slept under the stars with no one but my creator to watch over me. I have found great comfort in the uniqueness of this existence, as part of the ongoing universe, for my experiences have shaped me strong and aware of all that is around me.

If I had seen these possibilities coming beforehand, perhaps I would have written my life differently. Every day is a new line in an epic, one that I edit on such a regular basis that it has become a mythology to me. I am the alpha and omega, Antichrist and Messiah. I am all that was and is to come. I am every word cast upon every page, every sound ever uttered, every thought ever made. I am life and spirit incarnate. I am the universe. But I am also nothing.

I was born, as all men are as the result of the union of two sets of chromosomes, each defective in so many ways. My learning abilities were shaped through flawed human processes. I am a product of my environment: genetically and socially.

I am a sociopath. Every word spoken to me becomes a part of who I am. No thought I have is original. But I am not a degenerate. I do have the ability to discard unwanted aspects of my personality, just as I have the ability to discard those I once considered friends, usually because they can teach me nothing new.

I have accepted the fact that I am insane. I think this gives me an edge against the rest of the world, for I have accepted the delusion of emotions and free will as devices of this solid universe. Religion, science, history, and art, therefore are also merely part of the matrix of lies. Even the renegades that try to break that mold forget that they are merely another cog in this well-designed but poorly-constructed reality. We spend each day desperately trying to find some comfort in the world — love, compassion, beauty, fame, procreation, wealth. Each day is a painful reminder that we are all alone, cut off from each other and the universe.

Voices call out to me from a nearly forgotten past, reminding me of my quest, a future of uncertainty and opportunity. No longer am I the poet, the scribe, the dreamer. I am the words that are written on every page, that pass every lip. I am the symbols that lay behind them, deep in the universal consciousness. I am the comprehension of all that is read between the lines and in the empty spaces.

I write because of the pain. I can do no other. I am the words formed through the blood of angels and demons. I become each letter that is cast upon the page. Every sentence is a promise to you that I will always love you, that I will never leave you. Each drop of blood that falls like this becomes a part of me. Each time I put my pen to paper, I release a fragment of my soul, each a chain that will forever tie me to you.

I have no friends now, only knowledge and bad habits I can’t escape from. But I have some solace in the fact that I have demonstrated the power of my imagination. My ego will see me through the storms ahead.

I no longer write out of freedom or inspiration. These words that I create through fire quickly grow to become my master. Within the spaces you can find me trapped behind meanings twisted by the language that I am a slave to. Many times have I tried to escape the depths of these abstractions and each time I become them, eternally bound to relive what I have never known.

To myself, I am a delusion, a sick perversion of life. I neither want to live nor die — I spend every moment of every day building worlds and personalities and counterparts in a form that does not actually exist: my mind, my words. Too many times have thoughts crossed paths in my brain, intertwining destiny and reality, that I know I have the ability to turn these figments of my imagination into a real, tangible force that could change the world. But I feel powerless while I yet breathe this air. I live my life so that someday I will become what I now claim: I am language, history, science, and art; I am life itself.

I have written stories that will outlast ages and gods that even yet are unknown. And yet, here I am, tied to the words that represent the truth I have never known and the love I have never found. Many times have I seen the shadows behind the veil, images locked within me, linked to emotions still unexpressed. And even though I know I will never see peace in my quest, I continue onwards, clinging to an imaginary hope that someday I will find my truth, my love. Perhaps then I shall be free.