Musings of a Sociopath.
Identity is a big thing. Very big. There's just one teensy problem I have... I don't have one. yes: cue the emo music and grab a kleenex. You'll need it. Because my tale is heart-wrenching, long winded and generally average in narration. Actually, the last part was a lie. I'm a fucking awesome narrator.
Now, seeing as I'm writing this whole piece of crap for myself due to the endless tedium that is my life (I don't cope well with boredom, which is a shame seeing as I'm perpetually bored), I'll skip my life story and get straight to the point: my identity. Or personality, if you will. They are different, I guess, but this little bitty rant isn't about semantics. Oh no. It's all about me.
Fasten your seat belts, ladies and gents. It's about to get ugly in this here... wherever it is that you're reading this at the moment. … You get the picture.
All right, so let's start with the basics: my personality is as bland and colorless as a glass of distilled water. (Apart from the tiny fact that water is actually very pale blue, but I'll ignore that for effect.) Oh, I can string a pretty sentence together. I can do anything. I'm very good at that. You could say I'm very good at a lot of things. Most things. But am I exceptional? Am I brilliant to the degree of perfection? Maybe. Most would say that I'm not. But I am exceptional at one thing and one thing alone: the art of "faking it".
... Actually, I'm probably just as good at that as I am everything else: very, very, very brilliant. But brilliance and perfection are different. Perfection is unattainable. I'm close. I'm a polymath.
A jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Maybe I am a master of all of them? Working my way through life with no ambition. I'm going to be a doctor. Why? I don't have a clue. I couldn't give a shit about sick grannies or cancerous kids. Maybe it's the thrill of playing god? To hold someone's life in your hands and either send them to salvation or down the Styx. Oh, fun.
There's also a strange beauty to the workings of the human body. How fragile it is. How easy it is to break. Similarly with the mind. Why are we considered the most resilient of species when a well-placed blow can bring us to our knees? Our minds are meant to be stronger than our bodies, but they too have such hideous weaknesses.
My body may be weak and feeble, but my mind is a fortress. A wall less fortress, with neither shape nor form, only the ability to simulate such.
And, voila! We're back on track. See how these things work? Told you I was fucking awesome.
I guess I have a strong sense of self, but that's different to being somebody. I put myself above all others. Yet, I have impeccable manners. I can be anything anyone asks of me, be whatever it is they needed. And they are nothing to me.
Their demise doesn't sadden me. Sometimes it enrages me if I still needed them, be it for money or sheer entertainment. Their passing means I have to find others. (Sometimes just for the purpose of breaking them, which is an overall fun and enjoyable task). Sever their connections, drain them and discard. It's a social experiment. See if I can feel anything other than repulsion and annoyance at their weakness. I'm like a panther, catching the weak and devouring them. (That makes me sound like such a pretentious prick, doesn't it?)
I like fear in other people's eyes. It's one of the few times the dissocial symptoms lessen; I feel alive. All this stuff just goes BOOM behind my eyes... and my heart starts going badum-badum in my chest. Maybe it's the adrenaline rush? All I can think of is make it worse. Make them bleed. Cry. Scream. Make the cut fucking deep. So deep that their life just gushes all over your hands and you own their fucking soul. Because you need one, don't you? You want to be able to feel so real every second of your life?
You want them to love you as their world falls apart.
You want to be able to hold that love, see what it looks like and pull it inside yourself and let it make you real.
Ah. I am a sick fuck indeed ;)
AN. This is a few musings of one of my characters, Jack, the sociopath. So don't worry. I'm not a narcissist who thinks he's god ;)
-- Coma (a.k.a. satanics)