Derealization...

I've been in isolation for six or seven months. I'm still naked. I've been developing callouses on my hips, knees, elbows and shoulders, so I'm sleeping on concrete a little easier. I pass time by pacing the cell~ two steps, turn~ two steps, turn~ two steps, turn. Back and forth. As I do this my mind drifts and I'm suddenly watching myself pace the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watch myself as I begin to sing some old 90's grunge tune...Stone Temple Pilots "Creep" and then Soundgarden "Fell on Black Days". I watch as my feet begin to bleed leaving a bloody trail of footprints. Back and forth. Back and forth. Suddenly the walls start to close in around me. I'm screaming at myself to stop pacing and get help. I need help. But I keep pacing. I keep singing. Back and forth. I start to panic and find it hard to catch my breath as the walls begin to squeeze in tighter and I feel the cold hand of death on my skin. That's when I blink my eyes and realize I'm not pacing. I'm "back" in my body, standing at the door. I look down at a huge pile of paint chips I've picked off the door...."How long have I been standing here?" I ask myself. I turn and start pacing again. Back and forth. Back and forth. I still go through that daily, but I'm not naked in a box and I don't have paint to chip. 

Matt

Nihilism

My life is overwhelmingly uninteresting. That is the sad conclusion I’ve come to. My childhood was normal. My teen years uneventful. And my short lived adult life was unfortunate and pitiful. I suppose my most remarkable characteristic is not the life I lived, but the life I took, that I took a life. I’ve peaked your interest now haven’t I? How is that even possible? Should I be sad that in 35 years on this earth the most unique and interesting part of my life is the part I most wish I could forget? But, that’s life I guess. Our tragedies always overshadow our triumphs. The most moving stories are rarely of glory. Beauty is not found in love, but in love lost. The story of a woman throwing herself from a cliff because the man she loves, loves another-now that’s entertainment. But, where does that leave me? If my story was full of joy, would you be interested? Should I relish and rehash my most painful moments just so you will pay attention to me? To have your attention is to tear open festering wounds. Should I do that? Is that what you want? Could I do that? Let me guess, my suffering is somehow worth it because it brings you joy? Yeah, I see your smile through my pain. If my story was of my death, would that make you happy? That I should die just for your adoration sickens me. But, you like that don’t you? You sadist. That is what you are, after all. But, it’s not your fault. We were born into this. We are born though pain, into pain, so that others will find pleasure. That’s life. We crave horror. Find comfort in chaos. Solace in violence. And pleasure in pain. We idolize monsters, even as we persecute them. In what other world- what other lifetime- would the likes of Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, Richard Speck, Richard Ramirez, John Gacy, The Zodiac Killer, The Hillside Stranglers, The B.T.K. Killer and even Jim Jones be considered pop culture heroes! You do the math. What are we doing? Where are we going? Well, I, for one, refuse to play your sick, twisted game. I plead the fifth. I will suffer in silence. If you don’t like it, go read a newspaper to get your fix. You’ll find plenty there.

I’m just playin’ people…you know I’m just as sick as you.

Matt