I jolt awake sweating. My body is covered with it; a cold, fear-smelling liquid that makes my heart race. My legs tremble and my fingers jerk.
I am crying.
I am screaming silently, yet so hard I shake with the strain. I am trapped in a macabre dream where I cannot discern whether or not I am awake or asleep, because there is no real way to prove reality.
My own mind is eating me up from the inside.
I must walk, I must move. I must get away from the voices and the whispers that burn at the edges of my ears, the noises that flit on the sidelines of my waking conciousness, the ones I cannot touch or even hear no matter how hard I try. I try so hard that it rages and fires inside my skull, and I am thinking of five million thoughts at once, but what is worse is that I am thinking of thinking of them, on the surface.
This is what drives me mad.
The sheer being in this moment with the knowledge that I am not really in any moment, or even in the present, because no matter how hard I try I cannot seperate and organize "time" into orderly little boxes called seconds, minutes, or hours like everyone else.
I am not like everyone else.
They cannot understand. They will not understand. They do not want to understand. I don't want to understand, but I do. I do and that is what tears me apart, shreds and eats and rips me apart. I am hungry. My hunger is so great it has formed a seperate entity inside of me, a foul, stinking beast that taunts and howls at me, leering from behind my shadows with large starving eyes that relish in my horror at what I've become.
I am hungry for love.
That is what has made this beast. That is what has made this ringing silence in my ears and on my tongue and behind my eyes. Even my very senses yearn for it, yearn for understanding, for compassion. My eyes heat with pain, a dull, bloody pain.
Why can't I deserve that? Why can't I deserve Someone understanding me? Someone finally looking past the many things that have always set me apart, always made me different. Always marked me like a cow or pig would be burned by a brand.
I was a genius. The other children never liked me. Adults never could figure me out. My own parents are afraid of me. No one will approach me, although some respect me. I should have been happy. I should be happy.
All child prodigy's have a cycle. My cycle is running out and it is getting harder and harder for me to preform perfectly like I always used to do. My talent is running dry, and now, instead of racing forward like I did before, I am slowing down, gasping for air.
I am losing.
After all these years of being ahead, being beyond anything my peers could ever dream of becoming, I am losing.
The comfortable taste of success is fading from my tongue. Am I no longer "the special one".
This is my curse.
Ignorance is bliss. I wish I was stupid. Then I wouldn't have to face the truths laid out like funeral arrangements before me, I wouldn't have to be the stubborn lion above the sheep. I could just be content in my pasture among the other cowards; I could just be stupid.
I live each day with my emotion's kept in perfect check. They heed to my every command and whim as I keep them hidden. I have ceased to meet one single person who could ever figure out what I was truly thinking. I keep myself cold and distant. Silent and reserved.
I know what I have seen. I know what I have done. I am not a human to deserve anything.
Nothing but the pain that is present because of the knowledge of my existence. The way it is meaningless, the way it is ugly. The way it is lost.
I know what is and what isn't. I know I can have what I don't, I know I could do what isn't.
That is my refrain. They are my shackles. I wish I could tell you all that I know, enough to fill a thousand books, enough to talk for five thousand years, and still not be done.
I am slowly going insane.
I cannot stop it.
I cannot refuse it.
I am so lonely sometimes that I find comfort in my pain and the voices heeding my every wrong. They are the only things I have left.
This is my madness.
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