Misanthrope

It’s not you.

It’s not the bottle.

It’s not your fault.

It’s everyone else.

They took our souls first. They killed our innocence at a young age. They killed our joy and our curiosity. Our ability to dream was stolen before we could conjure anything up.

The thin veil of apathy hiding a wounded soul is deployed.

It’s effective. It’s therapy. It works. For now.

You make a new friend. The first real one. He’s nameless. He promises a reality to you. Where you’re normal. Stable. You’ve denied yourself delusions of grandeur and creative expression to have this dream.

You’re just one of many friends but you always do all that he asks.

His friends receive repurposed versions of your handcrafted gifts. They thank themselves for your effort.

He’s bored of you.

You’re alone again.

There’s an aching in your skull that’s always been. You didn’t notice it before.

A deafening crack of enlightenment takes place. The mind you’ve fortified is traded for the soul that was stolen.

You can’t help but create and feel. You can’t help but show simultaneous remorse and bliss over the death of what you once were. The death of everything.

Reality becomes abundant. Improper, unstable, and completely futile.

It’s beautiful.

It’s disgusting.

It has potential again.

The pain was unbearable but now I’m pain-free.

I miss my first friend. I used to call him Sanity.