Sometimes I come dangerously close to understanding myself.
When I think about things, or when I press my face against the cold glass of the bus window, the more I realise that the human mind might just be the greatest masterpeice ever to have been considered.
Take for example, me. It's a royal peice of abstract art. On the surface, there's the everyday worries, like hunger and distress, fatigue and the residue of childhood dreams, stewing up a bitter brew.
Below that stagnant pool of water and under the manic ripples, insanity swims amongst charming company. Love. Love that I'm not sure of, love that I want, and the love that I never asked for.
And then there's dissapointment, which leads to questions that bounce around with no hollow echoes that reply. This builds up energy, passion and anger.
But then there's the stuff that scares me. Four things spell out what's engrained so deeply in me, i know I'll never change.
Home.Atonement.Time.Empathy.
Four things I threw away. What's left?
Hate.
The person who strolls around my self conscious when I'm not there looks after all this, like the lapping of the tide when the fisherman's asleep.
It's a mess. But it's what's lurking behind these criminal eyes, and it's the card I was dealt with.
So there you are Mr. Pyschologist, with your leather shoes and trimmed, hard fingernails.
That's the thoughts of a psycopath.
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