Sometimes I wonder if the words that pour out of my head is my sanity slowly finding its freedom. And as I become more insane, I tell myself that it is okay. "All of the wonderful people are mad in one way or another..." I'd tell myself. And I still do. "It's not healthy." "That poor soul, she's so lost." They'd say. But I didn't mind it. I don't mind walking off of my path every once in a while. Life seems to be more interesting when I do, really. I like walking on the edges of walls sometimes. It gives me purpose. I'm always a tiptoe away from falling but then I balance and I feel okay.
I met a man yesterday. He was taller than any man I've seen. Though he never spoke, I could tell he felt the same things I did. He wore a suit, quite fancy attire for such an informal occasion. But I liked how he didn't mind if he was overdressed or not, he just wore what he had wanted to. His pale skin, contrasted against the red tie he wore around his neck, and I liked how the colors were combined, but each still its own color. I don't remember his face, that night I wanted to explore the ways of alcohol. So many things were wonderful, and it would be unfair towards the memories to say they were all meaningless. I woke up today, with the sun shining in my face, and a note in my hand that said,
"Your words are beautiful. The way such wicked, twisted, inhumane words came together, to sing such melodies. Your words spoke what I could not. Your stories gave me memories that were never meant to be mine. And for that I am grateful forever. One day, I hope to hear another of your stories again. –SM "
He was beautiful. I am sure of it. I hope I do meet him again, one day.
Last night, I had a dream. It was of the man, though he was without a face. We sat in a forest, the trees seemed infinite all around. And I told him stories, and we shared our burdens. He did not speak very often, but when he did, he spoke with a voice so beautiful. He gave me the feelings he had felt, and in return I gave him my thoughts. After a while of enjoying each other's company, I asked him, "Will you be my friend? "And in that moment, it was as if I had slapped him with all the hate in the world. I felt his fear, and loneliness, I felt the despair, and then a drop of blood splattered against my skin. I looked up to see bodies hanging from the trees, and then I knew. He could not befriend someone he had to kill.