Insanity @ MindSay 
love
March 9th, 2009
Emily G. Fieldus
----------------------
Dear Mother and Father,
I want to apologize for taking you for granted. It seems like ever since I’ve entered this war, that I’ve been regretting every time for the days when I haven’t told you that I loved you. It’s amazing what a war like this can make you feel. I’m going to be honest in this letter. Nothing but completely honest.
Living in a trench is ten times worse than what others say it is. I’m constantly wet. Soaked. I can’t remember how it feels to be dry. It’s been that long, even though it feels like I waved good-bye to you and entered this endless battle only yesterday.
I’m sunken in up to my ankles in thick mud; which I have been trudging through just to reach the other end of this smelly trench. The smell is worse than anything else I have ever smelled. It makes me gag, but I can’t hide my nose because my hands are already holding onto my gun. It feels like they will not let go.
There is no escape from the swallowing embrace of the monster that is sprawled out along the ground, waiting to capture the most unaware of soldiers. I’ve seen my fellow men get snagged by their feet. Trapped within the arms of this unremorseful creature, they desperately extend their arms for help – screaming to be saved until their throat goes numb. All we can do, time after time, is stand – weapons in arms – frozen in fear as we watch them slowly, gradually, being pulled under. I have waited endlessly for them to surface. Nothing. Not even a man’s helmet. It never takes me long to realize that the lost and stolen ones will not return. The men continue to push me forward as I stand there silently, taking a small moment to mourn. They shove me in the back, ordering me to keep moving forward with their heavy, thundering voices.
You would think the mud would drown and cover everything it sees. But it doesn’t.
The vile, spat out remains of what the mud did not enjoy is all over the trench walls and floor. Nothing but unpleasant sights. Ones that remain within your mind forever.
Rats. Hundreds. Millions of them are gnawing at anything they can get at with their short, pointy claws and miniscule but dangerous jaws. They stare endlessly at me with their glowing, red eyes – and I know they are waiting for my downfall. From dawn until dusk, they are waiting for me. Waiting for me to hit the ground and lose; so they can feed their already-grotesque and enlarging bellies with my uniform fabric and freshly rotting flesh.
They have infested the trench. Nobody ever goes a minute without having a small pack of rats nibbling sharply at their awfully worn shoes and dead corpses that are spread out along the bottom of our hideout. It’s like these creatures were delivered by the devil, himself.
It takes a strong man to stare at these rats, and watch them eat away at a deceased corpse that once used to stand beside you in this fierce battle and not grimace in utter disgust. Or not furrow their eyebrows. Or even move a single muscle within their face. I am not one of these men. I can’t help but turn away; torn, shattered, and broken at the sight of these rats feeding off the dead flesh off a soldier’s bones. My memory will not be rid of the brave souls that gave it their all, even if they were yet to strike our enemy.
Lice have infested my hair and clothing. I always get an often urge to itch and scratch, but I can’t. I can’t lose my life to something as silly as wanting to cure the itch. Getting rid of these pests is impossible. Not even an iron and board can get rid of them. The infestation is immortal. They live within the stitches and fibers of my uniform, and my body heat keeps them alive. They bask within the strands of my hair, and feast on my cold scalp. These insects cause me to itch non-stop, but I am learning to resist these pressed urges and remain to keep my focus attached to this nightmare.
There is also a strange infection that has already grabbed many soldiers. They call it the ‘Trench Foot’. It’s the consequence to keeping our feet poorly kept; that is our fault. But we can’t help it. We are here for war, not to complain about such petty things. I have seen men get sent away due to this disease, and have the afflicted limb amputated. I have a strong feeling deep in my gut that I am this monster’s next target.
I have also watched soldiers grow insane due to the traumatisation of this war. Some call it ‘Shell Shock’. These warriors would scream in such agony, clutching their aching heads, pleading for everything to stop. The sights and the sounds. The piercing whistles of fired bullets, and the deafening explosions from the mines. The blood splattered sand our feet swiftly sweep across, and the dead bodies that lie there. Untouched and left behind for natural disasters to rid them of their current locations. I have watched these poor souls be driven away to asylums, knowing that they will never return to a relaxed state of mind ever again.
Men are slowly being reduced to young boys. Fear never releases our minds, and our nightmares as knee-high children are restored to life day by day. The overpowering scent of death is everywhere. Not a single soldier gets a break to ease our minds of this hell on earth. Relaxing doesn’t exist, and even though all may seem calm in the hours of night, our minds are still alert – attached to the victorious sounds of squealing bullets and the screams of death from our foes. My dirty and sweaty hands itch to pull the triggers of guns, and my blistered feet are eternally sore.
Nothing matters when you are in war. Nobody cares if you have a wife, or have children back at home. Nobody matters where you came from, how many languages you speak, or if you excel at arithmetic or have read several Shakespearean plays. Nobody cares if you are rich or poor, or how many friends you have lost in this feud. All that matters is where your aim is, where you’re stepping, and how long you can continue to stay alive.
But don’t worry. I’m okay.
I love you.
You may have heard how “everyone has their own little thing, or does something, to escape their reality”. That’s it. I write to escape my reality, and I dive and dig deep into my inner core to come up with the pieces of writing that you may or may not be entertained by. Writing is a fantasy, where I don’t have to THINK about what I’m saying. It’s a place I often visit several times a day where I don’t have to worry about being judged on the most passionate and deepest parts of me.
A writer named Isaac Asimov once said, “I write for the same reason I breathe; because if I didn’t, I would die.” – That is what I call my ‘life’ quote. It’s a quote that will travel alongside me for the rest of my life, I’m proud to say.
No matter what people say, the fire and spirit of creativity will not die.
No matter what gets in my way, I still will write. I don’t care what it takes; I will NOT let such a lifelong partner perish just because of something as weak, insecure, and measly as the human being.
You may recall, through several entries, how I continuously state how “I’m not the same person as I was two years ago.” Well, unfortunately for you, I’ll repeat it again – I’m not the same person, and I know for a fact, that I will never ever revert back to her.
I will tell you right now, straight up – if I was there where you’re currently sitting at your computer, reading this blog, I would shake you by the shoulders and tell you:
“Don’t let ANYONE under ANY circumstance PLAY with your feelings, emotions, or mind!” – That was a lesson I learned too late in a certain relationship that I managed to escape last month.
Because people have toyed around with me: they’ve torn me down, then lifted me into their arms, they’ve dragged me down into the never-ending pit with them, and then they would somehow find a way to get back to where they started – at the top of the pit – with me still remaining within the blackness. Humans have took me by the arm, treated me like I was fragile (which I am) and precious, and then they would magically take a dagger out from behind their back and brutally stab me with it thousands of times.
The human nature has hurt me. Humans have driven me to the point where I hate my own kind. They have made me afraid of them. The human race, unfortunately, in many ways – is something that I wish not to be apart of.
But we can’t rewind the past and magically make me a turtle, now can we?
Over the past year and a half, I have been confused about many things… Like the existence of God, as you know. My purpose of life and why I’ve been put here. I like to believe that my grand purpose is to bring life to those who may seem emotionally dead. To let them know that somebody actually cares about them. My sole purpose is to let people know that they certainly alone.
Maybe that’s why I’ve experienced so many things with the inclusion of pain. Maybe that’s why I have such a helpful and listening nature. Maybe that’s why I’m over caring. Maybe that’s why I feel the way I do; the reason why I am who I am, even today.
In what I think my main, sole purpose is – I can tell you that I have been greatly successful with it.
In my past, I have overcome many obstacles – even a few addictions. I was addicted to Video Games for the longest time, and although I still play them (not as often, though) my parents were talking about sending me to a rehab clinic over that next summer in a city far away. The only reason why I didn’t go was because there were daily needles, and those are my worst fear.
I’ve also overcome a two year depression, to which my mother thought that there were demons living within me. I’ve overcome self-harm, although that wasn’t an addiction, I made a promise to never do it again (to those who have done it, you may understand how difficult it is not to do it again!).
But yet, despite how good natured I may sound – I am very dark inside. I know, I’ve said that many times before, but I’m writing this so you can understand a side of me that nobody ever sees. The second side of me is somebody who I am definitely not proud of, and unfortunately, she appears more than I would like her to.
Over the course of a year or so, I have discovered her. When she takes over my personality, I feel no remorse over the wrongs I’ve done. I end up batting hands away when they offer me help or assistance; a reaching hand to grab my own and lift me out of the abyss. I have come to learn that I can save myself in those times, only to find out that I have continued falling. I sometimes think that everything – life – is just a nightmare that I hope and pray to eventually wake up from. I just feel purely wicked and vengeful.
You can say that I’m both sane and insane at the same time. I don’t mean to put ‘insane’ in the aspect that would mean ‘give her a straight jacket’. My feelings from both sides of me are real and pure, I know that’s for sure.
I hope that gave you more understanding as to who I am.
I just often wish that there was a method of escape from this nightmare that’s been present for as long as I can remember.
But now I'm regretting it.
Right now I feel hatred towards myself. I wish I never was brought to the point of existence. My dream void was filled with moments and people from my past; which is generally not a great thing to experience again. In those moments, with those people, I wanted them all gone. What's the point in making a sacrifice if it's not even enough? What's the point in giving yourself to someone if they only end up making you crumble in the end? To me, it's worth nothing. A waste. Yet I'm still stupid enough to continue to make those sacrifices anyway. I'm stupid enough, after many heart breaking experiences, to lend my life to another person. It seems that I'm typically used in the long run, a small routine that my mind is yet to process and learn.
Really, what's the point in me being with other people if they're going to just make me forget who I am and bring me to the point of insanity. If only those people could know what it's like to love yourself but hate yourself at the same time. To welcome yourself as you are, but yet be afraid of yourself at the same time. It's a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde scenario. I don't even know who I am anymore, and I can't remember who I used to be in the past. The fire in my eyes has died, and there's nothing left but ashes. My heart has withered, but yet it continues to give and doesn't want to receive.
Sorry to take up your time. I just needed to get this off my chest.
Ok, so a few people have asked me why I saw 'Gawd' instead of 'God'. Well, I'm athiest, one thing. Second thing is that he's one of the few voices in my head. They want me to introduce them, well.. three of them do as they are the main three.
Gawd- An insane little bugger. He's the one who tells me mostly how I should act, my personality, if you will. He never actually tells me what I should and should not do, just suggests things and puts together my lifestyle. If you look at my personality and stuff, that's what he's like. Confusin and Amuzin. lol
Jeezus- This one is like my little shoulder angel. He can never agree with the third voice on anything, it's rare when they stop fighting. He's the one I tend to listen to a TINY little bit. Telling me not to do this, or go help this person [ok, that I usually listen to], or that's kinda dangerous. He's also a weeeeeee bit paranoid and kinda shy around other people. When I can't make up my mind about something, it means he's made a good point against it.
Chryst- This is my shoulder devil. And she's out there. She likes to take risks and get in TONS of trouble. And I listen to her a lot [she makes things sound worth it!]. She's very outgoing and loud and sometimes annoying towards other people. If someone dares me to do something, she ussually beeeegs me not to back down.
So those are the voices, of course there's the one that I'll talk to aloud, but I don't know her name. She sneaks away when people ask who I'm talking to.. lol
Have you ever been so happy that you decided to spread that happiness by going on a random killing spree? Well, that's exactly what Mike, our protagonist is feeling right now. It's a weird feeling, he thought, it does not come and go like a wave, but it's continuous, like it's been this way ever since I was born and I grew up with this feeling that there's something lodged inside my ribcage just around the vicinity of my heart. Mike writes this thought in his journal which he then closes. He rises up from his chair and floats into the washroom, where he gazes upon his face, all twenty years old of him, staring back from inside the magic opposite mirror land and the face attempts a smile. Almost, almost. No, the attempt was a failure. He washes his face and floats back into his room, changes clothes, goes out.
It's windy and he breathes the cold air, holds it inside his lungs for several seconds then exhales. It's almost noon and the street is bustling with activity. The usual: beggars, office workers, cars, small mounds of garbage, stray dogs and cats. He digs inside his pocket. He forgot something.
Now all packed and ready to go, he goes where exactly we do not know. For this story is not about Mike but about the man he's about to kill that afternoon and that man is currently sitting inside a fastfood restaurant called the joyousbee or happywasp or something like that, munching like a pig on his supermegadoubledeluxe burger. He's a simple man with simple needs: such as a mansion, women and expensive cars. He has just been from a rather strenous meeting and all day he's been looking forward to this meal. Wrapped around his right wrist is a rolex which reflects the light coming from the outside and fills the whole restaurant with its radiant wonderful health-giving golden glow.
He awaits the jeepney and Mike whistles a happy tune and every single time, the happiness of the tune convinces him that he's not afraid.
Ah what's the point of all this, what's the point of life, what's the point of suffering, what's the point of breathing at all, all these thoughts raced across his mind while looking at the blur of sceneries outside: the usual working people on the streets walking going to their offices and work and jobs and him, where am I going, nowhere, I'm going nowhere. Nowhere.
He's a man of purpose and importance and the last thing that he wants right now is to be late for his next important appointment, so he wipes his mouth and rises up. You could hear the trumpets and drums rolling on the background, proof of how important this fat, ugly sonofabitch really is. Thank you, come again sir, the guard who opens the door, says to him.
Mike thinks about something, what we do not know, and why the hell would we want to know. We don't even know the guy, we only know that he's going to kill that fat bastard, and that's the only reason we've come this far in this narrative anyway. Anyway, Mike actually thinks that someone is watching him and he does not like the feeling. He digs inside his pocket just to feel the security offered by his new and shiny butterfly knife aka balisong. Fellow passengers look at him with that funny look people give you when they think you're about to shoot them in the head.
Someone shouts HOLDAP, Mike looks at him. The guy is maybe sixty years old, frail-looking and wearing old man clothes, the rusty knife he's holding is wriggling and jiggling as if having an epileptic seizure. The people smile at the old man, and they all say at the same time: AW Grampa, you're so funny. And that's when the old man stabs Mike on the knee.
The end
No not really, Mike beats the crap out of the old man. The other passengers joining him.
Now, if you think this story is going nowhere, you are probably right for the author only made this all up to pass the time and he apologizes if you do not like it. Meanwhile, he has to close this journal now so he can go out, breathe the cold air and go kill some fat, rich politician in some fastfood restaurant called the happywasp or joyousbee, you know, just to spread the joy.
Showing 1 - 5. [ Next ]
