Phantasmicy

Isla
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2010-01-30 03:42:34 (UTC)

Beginning

I suppose I should start by saying that I believe in
two different categories of being: the normal yet enhanced
hinderances life proffers to you-- such pertaining to
existing as an unloved orphan, losing a parent to some
horrible disease, having a sibling with a disorder-- and the
absolute depths of confusion, not often the effect of the
normal hinderances but, in the essence, the total
afterthought of an advanced brain. Advanced does not mean a
form of super-human genius, nor does it represent someone
with the trait of powerful understanding. I like to think
advanced is along the same guidelines as smart. You are
smart when you are able to retain vast amounts of knowledge.
You are advanced when you are able to retain vast amounts of
understanding. Understanding the purpose of your
subsistence, the meaning of the whirlwind of your breath.
How, do you ask, does this tie in with confusion? When
you have borderline insane-- yet advanced-- people like
myself trying to make sense out of everything and failing
miserably. We are a category all our own, a subgroup so low
and abnormal that even ourselves do not comprehend our
purpose. Like stated, usually we arise from decent families,
untroubled neighborhoods. But when we so happen to grow into
our advanced brains, we long to fill them, and suddenly,
what could have been an ordinary life turned into a savage
reality, one where we are painfully aware of our
surroundings, are regretfully enlightened. Some call us
pessimists, but I call us the new Darwins, the new link of
connection, however twisted.
With that being stated I never knew that my life would
turn out the way it did when I was young. In that day and
age, which happened to only be ten or so years ago, I was a
happy child but demented in a strange way; there was never a
quiet moment in that aching head of mine. Every little
thought, every move others made, prodded at my inner
workings and nagged, giving me the impression that I should
do something with my incessant and constant observation of
the world. Oft I found myself sitting on benches when other
children ran around and threw their hands in the air,
climbed on things and laughed hysterically. I would purely
sit and watch when the opportunity arose, en rapt with the
subtle movements and scrutinizing intricacies of the human
body. The youngsters would ignore me completely when I
became this way. They continued in their innocent, childhood
jovialty, whilst I watched from afar and reveled when their
delicate fingers curled around the metal slide, secretly be
intrigued when their tiny mouths opened wide and released a
shriek of happiness. Of course, I was their age at the time
as well, but never did I revel in my own workings the way I
observed others, nor did I have a complete grip on "why" I
enjoyed seeing the smidgens of behavior come from the
children. For some odd reason, I loved everything about
humanity. There was a soft spot in my heart for functioning
people. Something inside my being informed me time and time
again that they were beautiful.
It makes it even more the stranger that I acted overly
animalistic in childhood, and still carry on my habits to
this day. I remain conceded that there is always a part of
young life when you feel like you could be an animal; you
crawl around on the rug and growl and bark like a canine,
and then dinner is called, and you walk on two legs once
again, saving your play till another day. But not me. Every
moment I crawled upon my four limbs, the two tiny hands
curled into fists made to look like paws. I would roar and
snarl and hiss at things that displeased me, I would cry
when my parents forced me to walk upright, I would whine
when they put my plate of food on the table instead of lying
the eatery on the floor like I desired. Many a night I
tossed under the sheets of my bed, agitated that I was made
to sleep in this "human" apparatus-- in a fit of rage, I
crawled from beneath the covers and curled into a tight ball
in the center of the floor, the moon shining in through the
window, hitting the wooden floorboards. I promptly fell
asleep, as I was at home moreso on the floor than I happened
to be on my mattress.
At this time I was also having horrific night-terrors.
My mother told me in the mornings about the dreadful things
I put her through the night prior; I would begin with a
light and steady whimpering, like that of a lost pup, my
fingers twitching and scooting across the backs of my palms.
The soft tone would soon ascend to a rapid snarling, then
followed by a loud and blood-curdling shrieking. By this
point my mother had taken me in her arms and secured my
hands firmly at my sides, for if she was not there to do so
I would reach up and claw at my eyes till they bled. She
spoke to me gently in the morning, enquiring if I might have
remembered what had occurred, but, as always, I never did,
and at some moment, if I had a scrap of doubt, the scratches
on my face spoke for themselves. They were angry scrapes,
vertically down, followed by the discovery of them on my
knees as well. Soon, I dreaded falling asleep, and my mother
dreaded it also. Nightmares attacked me at all hours of the
darkness, terrifically violent images that no child should
have seen or been able to imagine at the tender age of
seven. In rememberance, there was one specifically that
tortured me forevermore: my mother advancing through the
shadows of my abandoned, desolate house, her head severed
and the blood surging from the raw stump on the base of her
neck. In other instances, I would conjure up scenarios where
my home would twist and curdle like a butter-churn, and my
mother would sit on her bed and laugh as I screamed in
agony, her face drooping, awful. All of these made no sense
to both my parents and I; my mother had shown me nothing but
love and acceptance since the day I came from her womb, yet
I was too reluctant to speak to a psychiatrist and my
parents shared that reluctance. Being young, I felt that
psychiatrists were for the insane, which I knew I was not.
More next time.


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