Entry 4: The Thinking Process

It is very early in the morning.

You see, as I have only recently started journaling, I am quite sure my style will vary a lot in the beginning, until I come to grasp the way this thing works.

My main purpose will remain the same: To tell my tale through the weaving of a more creative… Edition.

Philosophies will be shared. Thoughts will be put down to pen. There will be a lot of anger.

And I mean, a lot.

But you see, as I’ve learned from reading Dracula, I will make sure to put in as many details as possible, without it being excessive. The important events and truths will be committed to this journal, without exceptions.

Jesus fucking christ, why does my father snore like that? I shuddered in genuine disgust at the consistency of the snorts and hissing exhales. I could not take it anymore, what with my strangely sensitive hearing, so I put on some headsets.

Much better.

Now, you see, I was going to attempt returning to sleep, but once a writer itches with words, nothing else matters. Sleep becomes a ridiculous task once your mind begins racing with what you wanted to say to your papers.

You know what I’ve realised? I am free. Despite where we currently live, I am free from the shit life I was in. From the dungeon of the Giants.

Now I lie here in this flat, simply awaiting escape from this horrid planet.

And everything she had ever taught me, everything she ever forcefully shoved into my head, I will toss out the window and watch break into a million pieces–in fact, it is what I am going to do in just a minute.

I forgot to mention that everyone is currently asleep.

Moving on. I went outside of the flat and took the stairs to the roof. The skies were grey; just the right type of melancholy. It felt as though the skies were responding to my dark, dark mood.

I looked within myself. Dark hallways stretched out before me. A soft spotlight danced above the vast emptiness. It shook violently, as if wind had been ravaging it for a while now. Except, there was no wind.

Slowly, I heard a moan that resembled the undead’s. It was miserable and weak, yet it echoed off the walls, amplified tenfold. I stood my ground as the creature she had moulded with negativity and insults slowly walked up to the wavering light.

It was willing to die.

I pulled out my paintbrush and began painting in the air. An enormous net flew right towards the limping, grey-skinned mutant, its grey hair consistently falling off its head. One eye had been stabbed thoroughly, the other was coated in a milky layer; the trademark of the blind.

It fell to the ground under the weight of the web that captured it, hopelessly clawing at it to get away. I wrapped it up in the huge trap and dragged it over my shoulder. I opened my eyes, and when I did, I found that I successfully snatched this disgusting pile of lies and nonsense right out of my mind. It sat there, groaning its last breaths.

“I’m not sorry.” I dragged it to the edge of the roof and heaved the weighty thing over my shoulder. The cancer did not fight back.

Until I started pushing it off the roof. It tried scratching at me, grasping my wrists, sticking to the building it was falling from. Just as it nearly wounded my pale skin, I kicked it right in the face. It fell through the air with a horrible screech–I had to block it out by turning up the volume of my music. It was not something I wanted to hear.

Yelling from the past echoed against the desolate streets as it met its demise.

“Shut up! Die!” I shouted at it, and a smile came to my lips as I felt myself winning.


Like an insect being crushed under the impact of a fly swatter colliding with its body, the mutant fell apart once it hit the pavement. It was over. I had killed it. The lies, the bullshit she poured into my brain. I really did shove it all out the window–off the roof, whatever.

Delighted, satisfied, I returned downstairs. At least that part was taken care of.

I knew for sure that I actually dealt with it.

Yes, horrific things happened to me. Yes, I’ve reached a state where I could barely think anymore. But you know what? At least I’ve opened up my eyes.

I feel lighter now. Better, somehow.

Yes, I am still enraged, but… I also feel at peace. I know she is nothing. I know she will always be nothing and has always been nothing.

I don’t have to be broken. I was standing victorious over a part I once had in me. Now it was gone.

But that did not feel like it was enough.

I went downstairs and grabbed my big bottle of kerosene–I once had a Zippo lighter but an idiot stole it form me–my matchbox and my fags pack. Finding my way outside of the building, I located the heap of rotting flesh stuck to the earth.

“This is it, bitch.” I doused the heap of lies and bigotry in kerosene and stepped back, tossing a lit match onto it.

Instead of blazing in flames like things usually did in films, the blueish flames slowly started eating away at it, growing in size as seconds passed by. It only became a castle of fire after finding most of the kerosene that simply waited for it.

I smiled smugly at the sight, and as the heat of the fire whispered on my skin, I stepped closer and took out a fag. Lighting it, I stepped back once more and watched the thing burn. I enjoyed disrespecting things I was burning further by using them as a light for my smokes.

My body relaxed thoroughly as my eyes rested on the brightness. It quickly turned to ashes and I could swear I felt myself grow wings. Inch after inch fell off the dead mutant as the inferno triumphed.

Finally, it was all nothing but ash. I tossed my cigarette onto the heap of burnt rubbish and released a long, slow exhale.

“You’re dead now. You’re really just… Dead.”

I suddenly shuddered and flexed my back muscles, feeling something weird moving about near my spine. Could it really be…?

Why not. I suppose any free being could grow wings.

At the thought, the tore out of my back–painlessly–and spread out behind me. They were truly majestic.

Raven black feathers the length of my arm coated the muscular structure. What protruded from my back was a set of raven wings; it was undeniable from the way they curved down near the end. I was extremely delighted as I moved them back and forth, which was surprisingly easy to do. As if I had them all along, I just never knew.

I walked away from the building and thoroughly extended the feathery pinions I now owned. They moved the sand resting on the ground all around me; like the tiny beginnings of a hurricane.

“Let’s try this out, shall we?” I said to myself, and at once, with all the force I owned, spread my wings. That gave me a boost right towards the sky; moving me like a ferocious trajectory ready to destroy. Except, I did not harm anything.

I flapped my wings repeatedly to gain altitude, and once I had achieved that, I began gliding along the winds. This experience I was greedily enjoying was more amazing than words could describe. But I will try–details, remember?

The autumn skies spoke of rain, and as I reached the layers of ashen clouds, I felt the chilly breeze caress my flesh. I shuddered in pleasure and genuine cold; it made me think I would feel the kiss of frostbite very shortly. I did not.

I grinned as I felt my fears fade away. I did not have to fear her. She was nothing. I had a bloody swordsman for a father, for fuck’s sake.

What could she do, anyway? Complain? Lie?

So what? I had the upper hand.

“Woo! Fuck you!” I shouted as I glided through the strong winds. I was more than okay with drifting far away from the flat building; I had a brilliant sense of direction.

The more I flew, the more liberated I felt. It was amazing; something I wished I’d done long ago. But hey, it was happening now, so why linger on the wishes and the should’ves?

Life happens. Shit happens.

I was not one to victimise myself. That was a disgusting activity to me.

I inhaled the clean air almost greedily into my lungs. The shock of freezing air thoroughly woke me up.

I stopped, hovering in place for sometime. I closed my eyes and decided to let everything go.

To stop caring. To just… Be.

I stayed there for a while, watching the world go by. No judgement, no fear.

“No more going back,” I muttered.

“I can’t be arsed to feel bad about this.” I chuckled at my own misery. Life was a comical thing to me.

Shrug. It’s all funny, really. Life should not be taken so seriously.

I have a lot to say, don’t I?

I wonder if I can put any of this energy into my novels.

Then again, I think I’ve grown an addiction to journaling. I can’t seem to be able to go long without it now. I like the way it helps me face reality, instead of me just shying away from it.

Fully satisfied with my first flight, I retuned to my new home. Where the only three people I could ever trust lay asleep.

That’s right. I’m far too jaded to be able to put my trust in others now. I don’t think strangers are out to get me, but I see no point in trusting people.

Who needs them, anyway? Truly, I think this is much better than the judgemental, uncaring or deaf ears of others.

Moving on.

I land softly on the ground and give in to the urge–I spit on the ashes of what I just destroyed. I walk inside with a smile on my face and my head held high.

I hate wallowing in self-pity. I hate taking things seriously.

No more.


I’ve spent the entire day doing things I normally did not do. I’ve watched a lot of sports. It was strange; I was not fully interested, and yet it was not bad at all.

I’ve been trying to deal with how disgusting humans are for the past several hours.

And I am going through a sort of withdrawal from nicotine and I feel so sick. Luckily, however, I have never felt more mentally clear in ages. I think if I ride this out, I will feel a lot better and I will be able to go without a cigarette until we move to that new planet I’ve previously mentioned.

The reason why I am doing this is that, primarily, I have no place to smoke. I used to go out onto my balcony and smoke and read, but now in this flat, I can hardly even go outside and smoke a fag. So I’ve resorted to waiting until we leave.

I’m glad, however. I am not one to willingly grow dependent upon anything. It happened once with caffeine, but after that pain, I just did not want to do it again.

Moreover, I know not to place my trust in false values. I know better.

I’ve stayed away from the internet and social websites almost the entire day, and I feel brilliant because of it. I began to grow depressed from the lifestyle and the mere feeling of obligation to respond to people. I needn’t be arsed with that–it’s not my thing.

Have you ever noticed how much T’s play a role in what you say/write? They come up so often and in so many words. I don’t particularly mind; they’re a beautiful letter to write. Especially in cursive.

I’m still not sure if I’m in the mood for talking to people, though. I’ve had pretty much more than my fill of people being cooped up in this flat. I am thoroughly exhausted.

This is so trying for me, as someone with an extreme case of Introversion. You might or might not understand, but being around people nearly 24/7 is making my withdrawal irritability, anxiety and boredom even worse.

I will simply keep journaling and just somehow get away from all this. One day soon, not too long from now, I will be able to do whatever I want.

We’ll get away from it all.

And by the end of this week, we’ll get done with everything for good.

If there is a battle to be fought, I plan on winning. You will see.

I am done losing. I am a fucking victor.

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