Mumblings of the Criminally Insane

My skin looks like paper, so rough and uneven. Blanched a perfect white by years of no sun. No sun today, says the weatherman. He says that every day, it seems, every revolution of this Earth is no sun today, no sun tomorrow, no sun ever for the rest of your life.

The paper, my skin, grows thinner each day, and I can see my veins as they float to the top and beat weakly underneath the fragile covering. My muscles atrophy, slowly but surely, morphing into an acidic solution that poisons me further with each beat of my cancerous heart.

Even if the sun did shine, I would not see it. I want to, God do I want to, but I'm trapped, under lock and key, behind the bars society puts on us all. I'm shackled with the chains that they say I made myself.

My bonds irritate my skin, forming angry crimson rashes that I wear like Christmas bracelets around my wrists. I must be allergic to metal, I gather, or maybe it's because of my constant struggling; always pushing and pulling. The metal bites at my skin and tears with it's vicious teeth, and it grows heavier with each drug the doctor administers, each soft, sweet lie that falls from his lips. I know I am not mad, I cannot be, because no on has any right to judge anyone else, regardless of what they do. You have but one life, one memory; use it as you see fit, that's my belief.

So what that I killed a man, the demons demanded it and they wouldn't give me peace until they had been quenched with his blood. No one listens to me when I talk about the demons, and I know why. Everyone carries demons in them, but I am one of the few brave enough to accept them and admit their existence. I am the enlightened; I know how this world works. No one else wants to think about it, they want to numb their souls with medication and drink and sex. But not me. I accept myself, my demons, and I go with the ways of the world, like a leaf floating on a river.

I am not insane, I tell the doctors. My reality is just different, everyone's reality is different, and everything is relative. Reality is perception, and no one shares the exact same perception. We are all damaged in our own ways, particularly when we search for a perfection that does not and will never exist in a human with a soul.

Now the paper is so thin that I can see my own soul looking back at me when I look at my skin. The paper is flaking, flaking away piece by piece, and I know I will not be able to carry on much longer.

Finally, after such a long period of anxiety, waiting for my demise, it happens; the paper starts to tear and my blood runs out of me in one great gush. It is odd to see that my blood is not red but in fact blue, and I watch my body drain itself. In a way, I am not so surprised at the unnatural color of my life essence. Red is the color of war; blue is the color of serenity. I am indeed serene. I am also devoid of emotion, and I feel nothing as the abyss encompasses me and, finally, relief washes over me like a gentle wave. All goes black for the last time.

I am at peace.