It's been three years since I dreamt of burning.
I watched a totally unrelated show on TV, and that night I dreamed of the men in the ring burning, the flesh peeling off their bones as they screamed.
The next morning I felt disgusted, as if I had to hide from this new part of me that was rising up. I didn't know what was happening, and I was scared.
But I was still under the naive impression that I could deal with anything life could throw at me. So I kept going, determined to defeat my demons.
But instead of sweeping them aside, crushing them into the dust and letting them waste away like so many before them, they watched me, they learnt. And they then took up residence inside me.
Oh, they weren't on the same level as my beloved muse. He was in my mind: safe, warm, happy. They were in my heart, my soul, turning me dark.
But was it really dark, I ask myself three years later? The view that it is dark is society's, not mine. The "darkness", for lack of a better term, came inside me and changed myself and I. Lead. Are we happier? I don't know. Are we complete? Yes.
So now I walk the street, burning people with my eyes, wanting their fear and my own to feed the creatures inside me.
Am I real? Yes. Was I real three years ago? No. I was just another sorry excuse for a child trying to make the people around me proud. Well, guess what? I no longer have any use for you.
It's been three years since I felt ashamed.