The Cannibalism of Childhood

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
dA User: "for the first time, i feel as though someone out there understands the way i feel about things sometimes. this is a very well-written piece, and it shed some new light on the way i think about my own 'zombification.' thank you very much for sharing this"

7: "Awe, thank you. I often feel that way, I wrote that while feeling that way and I have never felt better afterward."

Submitted: February 09, 2011

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Submitted: February 09, 2011



I've never actually used the word 'zombie' to describe this manifesting state of nothingness. I also know that I'm not the living dead, and I have not caught a rare strain of infection to cause me to lust for human flesh. Although, I believe that my emotional body began a rapid rate of decomposition, greying skin and sinking eyes; this zombification [the word regarding the transition from a happy, living human to an undead, hungry cannibal], is extremely rare and not transferable to any other human through my bite or anything else. In a way, I suppose, this state could transmit to another person by a simple verbal attack. When I thought about it, I realized I could not verbally attack another person in this state.

There is one point to this condition, and I have felt it on many occasions. The most recognizable symptom is the lack of a heart, not to say I have a hole in my chest and that I'm currently writing from an ambulance [though, a hole in your chest is a good reason to get in one]. Feeling that there is a gaping void in the chest [that you could dig around in for hours and never find evidence that a heart had ever been there] is a very important and obvious indication that a certain somebody has fallen victim to my form of zombification. Therefore, anger is impossibility—I don't think anybody could contract the strain from me or anybody else that has it.

A sentry to my own mental body, I realize that as unresponsive as this entity of unstable senses is to my conscious mind now, it had left a footprint and that is a vague impression of sensitivity. The inability to determine whether this is a weakness or just a sad little memory of the battle the emotional entity had waged against the state has befell me. I only remember laughter as an agonizing pain in my throat, but I hardly remember pain. I'm only holding the coattails of these memories, bringing them to mind is a difficult process that I have not been rehearsing.

Unanticipated proceedings brought me to my knees; caused me to cower in fear before the unknown before it revealed itself to me as a harmless cleansing process. The condition is inescapable, I cannot run and I cannot hide. It is simply, inevitable. Believe when I say I have tried to defeat the state, when I have fought mentally until insomnia finally feeds on my mind like a parasitic worm that is trying to imprison the little bit of mental freedom my childhood had gifted me.

Trialed week after week by sadistic challenges, such as trying to bear an atheist's criticism or an unintelligible friend tell you they want dance with the devil. Days spent sitting alone one day and picking apart your corpselike mental entity and finding every flaw no matter how small and stretching it until it is much larger than your own bravery. I think the most difficult trial I try to overcome is my inferiority complex and feeling that when somebody does not take the time to come up with a conversation on their own means that I am definitely responsible for their hatred and I am entirely unwanted. Constantly struggling with the idea of being unwanted or friendless has left me to leave the corpse of my emotions alone and try to survive without them, but much like CIPA, I believe being emotionless for too long could negatively impact my survival.

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