The archive of the forgotten

Damned to live, loved to give, die to forgive

Writing almost always mirrors reality. As a writer it is easy to write what you know, what you feel and what you fear. Many writers know themselves quite well because of that. And that has always scared me. I know myself, but I do not want to know him. That person that hides behind the words is good enough for me, but the words they frighten me. It is your very soul, laid out in front of you. So with hesitation I lay this before you. Welcome to my story, welcome to my soul.
~E(vyn)

"I am sorry," death said. "This'll hurt." The boy put the knife to his neck. "It already does."

There I laid, staring at the ceiling, terrified of the silence in my own estranged mind. Why wouldn't it talk? Why wouldn't it create? Where was the constant craze of geniality I once claimed to have? All I heard was the faint crying of the leaves outside my window which remind me or the oaks that accompanied my limited high school days. And all I saw was the disturbingly dirty white ceiling of the mental health hospital. Which was a rather kind euphemism for what any normal person would call a loony bin. But then again, maybe only crazy people call it a loony bin, I like to de-humanise myself according to society. Or maybe society likes to make me, non-human. I mean a genius, a miracle, a gift from god? All of those deny my autonomy, my free will, my potential, my work. Because I am nothing but a human predestined to be great. Gifted, the word many will call me, because there is no way that I have been working, I have been pressured. abused, into the role of the youngest Nobel prize winner ever.

"Mister Rhys?" I sit up and the nurse approaches me, I smile faintly when I see she is holding my first book: The cursed Comedy. The title does not make a lot of sense if I think about it now, but I got the idea whilst reading the divine comedy and my absurdist view of the world somehow thought it would be the perfect title.
"I wondered if you could sign my book before you leave." She asks politely.

I chuckle shortly and sign the book.
"I am going to miss you mister Rhys" I smile although that takes a lot of energy,
"How so?"
"I liked the wat you were thinking out loud. Your min is truly interesting and I wish I had a mind that's even remotely like that."
"If you work hard enough you can achieve great things. I have faith in you nurse, Katherine." She smiles.
"I suppose everyone can try, but there's the reality that not everybody can succeed, and that...frightens me." She says, I tilt my head and looks at my empty hand carrying the image of my soul.
"Life frightens everyone remotely sane." I whisper but she does not hear it thankfully.
"Well, I suppose this is our goodbye, I hope you don't intend to come back." She says
I laugh and nod, "certainly not." I say as I kiss her hand elegantly.

I walk down the driveway of the mental health hospital. The symphony of nature finally surrounding me feels good as I leave the white manor where the private clinic was placed. The trees are in beautiful chaos arranged that their branches can still touch. I sigh as I get into the black Rolls Royce and close the door of captured freedom behind me. Back to being the genius, the prodigy, the perfection, the heir, the son, the perfect picture. I wish I could simply fall apart again, one last time, not picking up the pieces, leaving myself to be harvested by the cruel crows of death.

"How are you Evyn?" The driver asks me. I look out the window and will forever owe him an answer to that question. I simply do not know. The psychiatrists say I ought to feel good but my soul still aches like it has been burned in the morning sun that time you fell asleep in the fields in the distant day when you were a kid. And my mind, my mind feels like it is, fine. Simply fine, normal...
What is normal, how does an average human know when they feel average? When will I understand? I am a genius, a best-selling author, a professor, a Nobel prize winner in two different subjects how can I still be puzzled by the world? Surprised even?
It frustrates me, how much do you need to know and understand of this world to finally be happy? How many times do you need to ask the right question at the right time? Or is it the frustrating truth that I need to envy the people gifted with the ability to understand less than I do? Or is this all an excuse for my own self hatred and pity? I sigh and look out the window as the endless trees pass the road I have travelled too many times. Sometimes I wish to travel this road in the opposite direction and never come back. I chuckle at my own lack of originality, but everything has been said before, originality is only determined by the volume and conviction one uses. The only thing that might not condemn us to insanity is the public's eye. But I am insane already but do I dare tell it? Act like it? It can go two ways: shame or brilliance.