Why can’t I just write what I want, and let the world be as it is? Why do I constantly have to try and be a part of it? Wouldn’t it be so much easier for me, shouldn’t I just know by now, that my place is not out there, with them?
I look across the landscape, over the trees, roads, the gas station. I look sharp, hard, follow the wind with my gaze. Not even the dirty glass interfere with my vision. No. I’m here alone, here by myself, while all those others pass us by. Me and this gigantic concrete building, both of us so fixed in time. In space. They don’t know. They don’t know me. None of you do.
There is darkness here, yes, in this apartment in my head; no light shines through the windows to the empty streets. But light, too, oh yes, this light, that prohibits me from seeing out the windows. Reflecting on them so, so sharp. A light that, still, so comforts me when I lie awake at night. In an empty bed – empty, cold, hole. Builds up pillows and mattresses out of nowhere, just to make me more comfortable. It is a very comfortable shell.
And the one thing that so upsets me, is that I’m all alone. Alone, yes, but there is no room here for anyone else; I have filled my rooms with pictures of me. Stories of my life fill these walls. Am I selfish? Or am I just protecting myself..
I do keep a cabin here, though, just around the corner. Separate and safe. My darlings, dearest, loved ones. Yes, I’ve killed them and I stuffed them there. Mine. Forever.
And then you see; I may not be what you think of me. Horrid beast, only aiming for a kill? I call it self-defense. An anti-social being out of sense? Oh, but that one was just true, indeed, you hit one right on the butt of a nail! And I’m speaking in tongues; no, wait, wrong religion…
Dry like a bread without butter for lunch, I make these bad, bad jokes, that no one ever would understand. Yet I cannot stand, no; I’m so bored with all this talking, all these people! Go away and leave me alone.
Come back and let me kill you.
Change, me? Never. I’m proud to be just me, just like this. Still, I feel I miss that gentler nature, hidden deep in here somewhere; somewhere I’ve never looked before. Yes, somewhere behind that open door. And again, that damned light shines too bright for me to pass, for me to walk through. Coward. Yes, the coward soul is mine.
Yet proud enough to walk here head high, shoulders low; walking back, well here would be the problem. Home alone again, I crumble. True, yes, and keep picking up my pieces till the morning. So cruel, vicious, mean; and horrible. But then again, aren’t we all?
(The idea of a coward soul is of course from Emily Bronte’s poem No Coward Soul Is Mine, rest is purely mine.)