Sane enough…When is one sane enough? Is it when the brain has dulled the acute senses that are portrayed in ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’? Or when the final will of the client is broken? Maybe when society thinks the false smile that is sewn in and the façade of happiness is to an extreme degree.
All I know is that- I did something. Nothing wrong, but nothing right. The voice has assured me that. My conscience isn’t that pleasant of a woman. Though don’t tell her unless you want a scolding. She was there, urging me to lather the blood and sin on my unpure hands.
I won’t deny what I did. I’m much to prideful for that. I committed the deed. The pompous ‘evil step-sisters’, my ‘wicked step-mother’ and ‘prince not-so-charming’ are all gone. I was the Cinderella who went crazy. The Cinderella who went crazy, they say. T. Please kind sirs tell me am I mad? Has my brain boiled down to the incomprehandable insanity in which you protray me in? I can’t speak this way directly or they will think that I have lost my sanity once again and throw me into the wretched chains of hell society swears will help me.
Oh yes the wonderful wayward asylum. Wonderful in the means that it was my own purgatory. A battlefield in which my mind used counter-measures to delay the inevitable. My sanctuary was my mind, where my delusions spread wild. The poisonous psychosis engulfing me. It was a disease to society. I was a disease to society.
That’s why we are chained and gagged. So that the unsuspecting butterflies that roam society will not be influenced by true distraught. True turmoil. They will only know the lies spoon-fed to them. They will never know the agony eating my soul and the insanity throwing the remaining pieces into the fiery inferno. They will never know the pleasure of true suffering.
For suffering is the key to all success. What is the single aspect that rivals life? Death. Please misères, if we are born to live and are destined to die- What is the point of living? It is a contradiction. Death is the new alive. A wave of ecstasy that one cannot fathom put through by the pleasure of sorrow and pain. That is the gratification of dying during life.
Do poor butterflies understand the art in which I speak of? The art of suicide... The divine aspect of giving yourself the tranquility of bereavement without the slumber of centuries. I have currently become an artist of this sort. Always tampering right upon the edge of sinful death only; dangling on a thin wire over the lusty pits of hell. It was in these scenarios, that I felt alive. I felt as if I was blossoming with potential and was ripe for the picking.
Dear reader, I do believe you are suffering as well. I sense that you are troubled. Very much so troubled, and thus for my kind reader, I’d like to give you a proposition. What I speak of is live documentation of the cruelties society’s hidden from your fragile butterfly-lensed eyes. I will let you peer into the Asylum.
