In the Lonely Hour

Maybe I am just the sun of everyone else's collective thoughts and impressions. It's very easy and safe to say that in the lines of sights possessed by others, that is precisely what I am. 

Maybe I'm just this crazy, psychotic lunatic that never will have the perception or vantage point he needs to be what everyone else wants him to be. Maybe my mind is the reason I can never fit into the narrow mold that is presented for me. 

Maybe every time I hear that I'm just crazy, I'm a psycho or any other jab at my mental health or mental state ... It's like a bomb is detonated in my left atrium. A pain that very few can ever know or feel. Maybe the shame that follows me through life will one day become so insurmountable that it sees its victory, and I ultimately meet my defeat. 

I've fallen on my face, had my legs swept out from under me in this life a thousand times over. I've tried and fought to maintain me and to be the person I'm so oft 'encouraged' to be; only to see that encouragement turn to hatred and anger when I stay true to myself and the mode in which I was constructed. Although it is clearly a faulty construction, it is what I know. 

It's the most defeating feeling one can face. To look in a mirror and not know yourself; to find that the people that you've trusted with the manuscript of who you are and what you've seen are the ones who ever so easily use that manuscript to read passages that devastate your confidence, defeat your energy and neutralize your passion and will to keep trying to find you.

It grabs hold of your mind and pushes you further down into the vortex of your melancholy mood and somber acceptance that maybe you're so invariably flawed that you are here to serve that purpose. To be the scapegoat, to be the one that is easiest to blame, condescend and betray ... You awaken every night to replay the pitfalls of your existence on earth, to see the lesser side to what everyone tells you is a great person. To feel worthy of nothing more than solitude and loneliness. To always shoulder the anger from the external while trying to quell your war against yourself within. 

Maybe I am supposed to be all of those things. Maybe God made me this way not to change and get better. But to serve my purpose as the insane, hollow shell of a human being that everyone else's eyes seem to see so prominently in my soul.