I do not need money or comfort, though I will take as much as I can get of either or both. I only care about sharing my happiness with my friends and loved ones. What’s mine is theirs and I do not care if they reciprocate, I just want to us to enjoy ourselves as much as possible. I do that because I, myself, do not know how to enjoy what I have. Seeing others enjoy those things makes me really happy. I love buying gifts and I put a lot of thought into them, even so, my timing is god awful: I have a terrible memory for dates and, as a result, tend to forget birthdays and other important dates. I (usually) get a spot on gift, but almost never when its supposed to be given.
I have an immense hunger for creation. I spend all of my time trying to understand how things are made so that I can make them myself. I dissect everything, constantly. People are puzzles, machines are my playthings. I taught myself computer science from the ground up and I make really good software and I am fascinated by the concept of [AI]; with my career, I intend to push the limits of what is possible with this amazing technology.
Along with that hunger comes an equally profound desire for destruction. It gnaws at my soul day and night. From a young age I have known the value and beauty of life and creation, even if I have secretly always wanted to snuff it all out. I do not want to destroy things, but I often feel like I need to. I am stronger than that, but only because I have practiced meditation regularly for the last thirteen years. (Context: I’m 23) Keeping my life together takes immense mental fortitude: I am an atom bomb trying not to explode.
I like being honest with people and I don’t play games. The trouble is, I’m also very close to the edge of insanity: I honestly don’t understand why I do many of the things that I do. I can correct for my distorted perception of reality, for the most part. I participate in a lot of strange behavior, but I am a mostly functional and very successful member of society. Sadly, I feel this paradox tends to convince my peers that the insanity I claim to suffer from is an exaggeration. It is not. I am consumed by fear and hate and fury. I want the world to burn, I want to feed my hunger: I want to consume the world and feel the poison burn in my stomach.
This is not a cry for help. This is not a suicide note. I will keep living and creating until my body expires. If I am given the opportunity for immortality, I will take it. I really, really love being alive: it is exhilarating. I just want it to be understood that I’m not kidding. I do not want a crutch or special treatment. I simply wish to be understood. My pain is real and occasionally overwhelming.
To illustrate, somewhat, the world I live in, let me share a poem I once wrote:
The nausea never really went away.
A bitter gall in my heart,
A festering wound in my soul.
The taste makes everything sweet turn bitter;
Ashes of everything good.
Bitter ooze drips from the pores of
Everything I see: my soul weeps.
I die every night. I am reborn every morning:
Endless days, ceaseless death, unrelenting birth.
I wish for an end, but there is no escape.
I must live, hunted, haunted,
Full of shame, tortured by regret,
With a cold and empty heart.
A fire long neglected.
I don’t know how to stop being alone.
I don’t know how to believe I exist.
I don’t know how to believe anything matters.
I don’t know how anyone could want me.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do to them if they do.
I’m afraid to try.
I want to watch the world burn.
I do not want you to worry, I am fine. My thoughts hurt me sometimes, but I never let them keep me down. I am confident someone will come along who I can share my crazy life with. I will always triumph when I set my mind to something, but maybe just think about holding my hand every once in a while. I do not need you, but knowing you care, and, more importantly, that you understand, means an awful lot.