Home isn't home, family isn't really family, friends moving in bipartisan units across my field of vision as I move along the rice fields. Everything moving past, going aside, fading off into the distance.

There's a road beneath me, taking me to a place I've already been, already seen, yet forget from too much drink, too much forgetful wishes. I want to see it, but at the same time wonder why not take the tram there. Why the walk?

And then I remember...no, I never forget. It's always apparent to me, like a blueprint tatooed across my eyeball. I can always see it, off in the background, pulsating a light blue with the step of my feet upon the earth.

Why? I ask why not? Angst, independence, loneliness...pathetic trademarks of youth. My claim to fame is being ok with where I am, with feeling like this since I was a child. I am not held by sadness, I am not held by pain...I am held by points, places that require me like an herb in a recipe.

I belong to many recipes. I've destroyed people, left them shivering wrecks of human beings as they cry by the wayside for the death I've given them...for the things they need to realize. I've played God, been God to others in their minds. How can you die if you're so immortal? If you remind everyone of someone? Why wouldn't you want to extinguish your flame if it means burning others to ignite ther own? Who made me pass judgment and blood between my fingers like silk?

I see things, hear things, feel as though I am a part of some big secret while turning my ear away from everything else spoken around me. A friend whispers to me, conversations about what I should do, what I would like, all falling around me like white noise. So soft, so distinct, it knows me and I know it. Why go for the cocktail conversations around me?

I am so in-tune with what I think my destiny is it scares me. I am willing to die...I am willing to act...I am willing kill...to do anything that is required of me. Can you find capability in your hand and squeeze it like the pommel of a dagger, feel the grip get nice and warm? You're holding me...and I like it, I like your hands on me, touching me, letting me know you recognize me.

You drop the knife, horrified you ever picked it up in the first place. Where I cascade is already known. I've already seen it.

It isn't a want of suicide because of depression...it's having anticipated the punchline and bloody well finding the period in-between pointless. I exist solely for the benefit of others and a self that is myself but not myself.

Does that make sense? Forget it, just drop the blade. You still thinks its pain. Wrong type of pain; trust me.

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