Freedom at its Finest

Psychopathy, what a misconstrued concept, what a way to challenge our charisma, our charm, our coolness, our lack of chagrin, our petit conscience... Contradictory to the casual psychopath's chronicle, we are no more anthropoid than you, your country of clans, you who are impotent when it comes to conceiving such a centralized concept of OUR peoples, the ones you cannot account for, OUR peoples, the ones you cannot care for, OUR peoples, the ones that are not considered conventional, but rather cast off, conceivably convicted of crazed crimes, that of the like which only such crazed individuals would pluck up the courage to commit. Ah, but that is just it, isn't it? That common, once customary sense of normality, forevermore off-course from our cores, concluding us as: What is left? Crazed.

The young thought reverberated in my head as I shuffled over to the kitchen, approaching the polished marble counter, reaching my bitter hand out to the empty mug that I had left there. Grasping it, I then transferred it over to the coffeemaker, turning the machine on to pump out its black juices.

A whirring noise later, my coffee was brewed and waiting to be sipped in the mug. Taking it with two hands, I blew on it lightly, watching as small steam particles floated from the top of the brew. With my cup-o-coffee in my hands, I walked over to the living room, hoping to have a moment of peace.

Entering the well-lit room, I couldn't help but notice a small glistening in one of the windows. After I had placed my joe down on the coffee table, I strode over to the window, gently pulling away a bit of the curtain so as to see my outside world better. There I could see where the glistening was coming from; a photographer, or a journalist, or a reporter, or a peeping tom.

I grumbled some and shut the curtains, walking back over to the coffee table where my comfy chair was placed. Sitting down in it, I grabbed my coffee once more, and took a long sip, listening to the nuisance of a noise it made.

Photographers, journalists, reporters...I'd seen the like of them before, and they all have one major factor in common; they're all bloody annoying, more annoying than any man trying to slowly sip his coffee.

After having set my coffee back down on the table, I had closed my eyes, letting out a deep sigh. This was normal, someone outside with a camera at the ready, waiting for me to make an appearance.

Or else, this has been the normal, ever since my wife let the news slip of my pathological mentality. Crazy that woman, hopefully, damned as much as crazed, for the only reason she stayed was for the press, oh the press, yes the press, adore the press, embrace the press...all one huge load of malarkey. Have I been better off since I've divorced her those many years ago? Hard to tell, but I do know that life still goes on, whatever that means for me.

Constant home surveillance, excessive amounts of check-ups with the doctor, and too many pills.

I scuffed the bottom of my slipper against the hardwood floor for the only reason of trying to clear my head. That was something odd that often worked in my favor; a sudden sound, mainly one of discomfort, would do well to clear my mind of thought. I always viewed it as my special oddity of a mental detox while my doctors always viewed it as an added symptom.

Crazed.

There it was again, blooming in my mind like a daffodil in a field of daisies, flourishing like a magician's wand, shooting sparks that could only spark more thoughts of the same subject, one I disliked, those of me.

I took another sip of my coffee and then scuffed my slipper against the floor once more, the personal thought soon dissipating. Perhaps it is cowardly of me to chase away thoughts that strike at my core, but alas, what normal human being does not conceive at least shrapnel of cowardice in their selves?