My first story

I’ve written many stories over the years. But I have been keeping them from you. I’ve been hiding behind my mind, just to come up with an excuse not to show up. I’m back here, and I see the world passing by. I feel alone, and somehow, safe. But alert: I also feel quite the opposite. A fraud. A misguided soul. A hasbeen who’s neverbeen. I’ve been just out here selling a sad story for myself that nobody believes. Not even me. That’s why I’m doomed. My worthless effort to confront my fears lay me down gently into the realms of nothing. I’ve acomplished nothing, yet I feel I deserve to have a place. Somewhere. Somehow. I just can’t handle how this could turn out to be a good story. So I keep thinking. So I keep trying. So I keep writing.

Nonetheless, I figure out I have a way out. Just one shot. This one shot is the story that’s going to safe my life. And this one story is the only one that I could tell. The true story I’ve been trying to be honest to. Because nothing else is anymore. And thus I fail in everything else as well. As it soons becomes a fraud. My fraud. Just like I see it. Like a see the fraud around me. And how it evolves and hunts you down. How it’s going to boomerang behind my back once I feel the releif of having thrown that stone at the right deamon. Pum!

I’m knocked down. My life is fear. I can sense it in my spirit-lost. I used to have it. Now I don’t. I told you already. I am not here for help. I am not here for therapy. I’m just here struggling, like the rest. And my story has been seldom told. So why again? Why me? Oh, lord, send me a sign…

Despair. Don’t show it. They’ll know. You are not supposed to be like this. This is dangerous to the system. They will soon come after me. And they’ll take me down. Like any other outlier that sits in the path of the system-dwelling smocks. Dull-faced hero’s of our time. Or jailmasters, or slavetraders. Murderers working for killers. Explotaition of the human kind working within the networks of our current LIFE. The underground connections to the dark forces within. The mafia culture. The moral doublethink that allows guns and drugs to be both the devil and the glory. And yet, we find the excuse to let it all sit in the same sort of frame. Our circus. And we, the agora, exploit the fact that we are not the evil one(s). Or so we think. But some fingers point at your direction. It’s not me. Like that’s a proof of anything. It’s people like you who brought us here. It’s entirely my fault. Now I know. Forgive me. Fellas, I’m the last sin. And I take pride on it; one last time.

I’ve only got one story. I’ve told it a million times. Or that’s what I figure. That’s what I’ve told myself. I have no proof. Just texts, documents, drawings, schemes. Babling. Over and over, the same story I’ve always told. It’s just it I need. Just this one tale. At point I will release the pain. The struggle will finally come to the end. And we shall still believe what surreality stands for in a leap outside yourself. It’s just that quest I’ve lead. And somehow, it’s still my cross. A holy one indeed. I must carry it on. Alas, here we are at last: ALLS.

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