I find the duality of life as experienced by both political poles to be especially interesting. The left kills their own out of convenience and the right kills others for the same reason. Sometimes we kill others via inaction, sometimes will kill with our hands. I propose that we are all murderers, and it is an easy proposition to make when one’s position in life is that of an inactive observer, which is what I am. We all have blood on our hands, after all, and I propose that we should acknowledge such rather than deluding ourselves into false innocence.
Do not misunderstand me. I am no one’s advocate except my own. I care not for the masses foolish enough to be manhandled by the antisocial and psychopathic demons around them. Nor do I care for those in which I see my own reflection. What I do is for myself. My ego may not be fragile enough nor hungry enough to require me to show my talents for all too see, but my will demands that I be in control. To be in control demands that I control the discourse to the best of my ability. To be in control dictates that I become both entertainer and educator. And, this I do gladly even if I feel little reward in return. Do you want to know the depths of darkness? Do you wish to become acquainted with the self-destruction and fury of the psychopath? Longtime readers would know that you’ve come to the right place. Moving forward, I will revisit topics that dominated the first two years of this blog though with insights that are more current. I am not cured and I never will be. What I am, however, is more aware than ever before.
I talked recently about my feelings going into to future relationships. I know that, as a psychopath, I will remain predatory and that the fate that is best for any potential paramour involves them staying far away. However, I’ve been wondering about my motivations for even seeking a relationship. The truth is, no one is interesting or otherwise worth my time. My supreme narcissism and self-centeredness has left me viewing others as mere slabs of meat – slabs of meat that can be devoured but with as little invested interest as one would squash a fly. Most of the time, I am indifferent to others around me. The exception is when I am hostile toward others. Some would call these symptoms of an attachment disorder, though the name concerns me not. All I know is that I am surrounded by those that I cannot care about. They aren’t worth my time; no one is.
Violence sells well these days. We sit glued to our televisions and to our theater chairs watching the latest and greatest dismemberment or murder. Violent books line the shelves of our bookstores and violent headlines are front and center on our newspapers. We live in an age in which all are expected to stay riveted to such sensationalism. And, you know what, it works. Violent images are made for violent minds.
My nihilism is well-noted by those around me. I am a firm believer that life is a cosmic accident and there is nothing intrinsically special about it. I’ll be thirty soon, and my body will decline as it marches toward the feeble state that it will someday exist in. The mind will slip and degrade as well, leaving the only faculty that separates us from rocks wounded and dying. Among the living, we are infinitesimally forgettable and, eventually, among the dead we will be lost even further as moss and weathering tarnish our graves. What in this life truly matters? Give me a reason to care. However, my inability – due to sociopathy and childhood abuse/neglect – to feel positive emotion with my day to day existence is the most damning contributor to my nihilism. All that is left is logic, and it dictates that none of us are special at all.