Dear Journal,

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

   Oh, sweet Jesus. Dear sweet Grandfather of Cain and forgiver of Judas.

Dear Joseph and lovely Mary and all the ghosts holy or unholy that have ever stalked the Earth…

She is finally ours!

And yet…I fear, I am not satisfied? And the puzzlement over this development has slumped me into quite an unfortunate dank cellar of writers block. (which is in fact one of the reasons why you haven't heard from us for a spell)   

If that’s what you choose to believe…

And it is here I presently reside, chained to this dank stone wall in this tenebrous dungeon…while brick by brick my alter ego erects his wall before me…enclosing me…enslaving me.

Tis what you deserve.

For if I cannot be my own, than how can I allow myself to be someone else’s?  To be hers?

See my dilemma dear journal!  

She has succumbed to me. Given herself over fully, if not willingly; but who dare judge the silly pleadings and objections of a girl who is so tenderly…so obviously and feverishly…so indelibly painfully in love!

NOT I, lest I falsely profess to have unraveled the mystery that is woman.

Certainly not YOU, dear journal. (tee-hee)

And not HE whose masonry skills are on full display before me!

HEY YOU THERE…OTHER ME! I won’t be closed off so easily ya know.

Remember, I am the emotions. The love. The sun. The flowery words to mask your despicable intentions.

Threatening me with your grave diggers muscles and petulant herky-jerky confidence won’t work.              

SILENCE you blind twit. Don’t you see her there…on the bed!

I see her there, on the bed. She’s sleeping now. Her breathing coming in tight little feminine gasps. I bet she’s dreaming of me. 

I bet the little bitch is dreaming about me!   

When I followed her that day, my birthday…down to the lake…I had a head so full of sinister that I nearly allowed myself to be overcome with it. But in the end, logic triumphed.

I approached her and she was delighted.

She recoiled.

I spoke to her and her voice was like thick warm succulent honey oozing out of her. 

Bile. Terrified, regurgitating stomach acid attempting to force the Mexican valium out.  

I held her hand and it was as if the big bang occurred all over again, driving us out into the unknown at speeds greater than light.

I tied her up and brought her home.   

I see her there, on the bed. Resting. A week of constant love making can positively wear a girl out.

I wish we had our own ‘toy box.’ What this girl needs is some real pain.  

Saying, ‘My Angel,’ is no longer just the musings of my love sick mind. She really is mine.

More like a ‘Blood sick’ mind.

DAMMIT! I really think you, (other me), need to go now. It was necessary and it was…entertaining, while it lasted, however I believe I am quite capable of moving forward on my own now. I realize I’m not crazy. I am not insane. To be able to come to this comprehension at all is an indication of my sanity. To consider the possibility of insanity in the first place only proves that I am in fact of sound mind and body.

And my Angel proves it.

When you told me to chop off her hair. I caressed it.  

When you told me to slit her throat. I nuzzled it.

When you handed me the crocodile shears and directed me to a hole. I instead made love to it.

Yes, yes…I see your pointing trowel. Go ahead…continue to stack your bricks. One by one my dear, demented other me. Stack them high and stack them proud. But I will not be frightened. You’ve threatened before, haven’t you? You and all your hard talk and elaborate schemes. What’s the punch-line this time, huh? My shame? My embarrassment?

I scream and beg…pant for air…panic stricken and apologetic and praying and swearing: ‘I’ll allow you more face time if you just give me one more chance! I swear to God I will!’

Well not this time. I thought I needed you, but I’m perfectly happy being sane. All the illogical, lunatic thought bricks in the world cannot entrap a sane man in this own mind!  

   Oh, but your wrong bambi. I’ve always had the power to bury you. It’s so much easier to just let it all go, than it is to keep trying to hold it together. I think you know that. I’ve been paying attention you know. Reading your words. I know you’re tired of always being in control.

Funny thing is…I always thought I needed you. That I was the one who required babysitting. You hid me away so well all these years. Fed me lies about society and morals and hope. But I see the light now. And you’re finally going to pay. For all those wasted years.

For all those knives under your mattress without a single sanguine stain. For all those erotic and deviant fantasies I’ve projected for you over the years…only to be ordered to my room while you discarded them into a sock.

For that angelic heap of flesh tied up over there on our bed. With all her untapped pain potential. So many fingers yet to be snapped and toe nails yet to be ripped off and two thick chewable nipples and perfect teeth to be pulled and earlobes to be shredded, and holes still to be explored! And you, just sitting above her this past week, cooing sweet nothings to her. SHE DOESN’T LOVE YOU! She’s terrified of you. You’re holding her captive against her will. She isn’t one of your childhood barbies! She’s a mass of flesh and bones and fear and sex. You **** imbecile!  

I am tired of you editing and re-writing my filthy scripts. You are loathsome and boring and a disgrace to our bad name.

So yes, other me…you will be confined. Sinless and spineless and perfunctory other me…YES!

Yes, for the love of God!

                                                  *****

   And so it is that we are no more. That it is now just me and not I. The one with the sensibilities and morals and social intellect…forever locked away in this cerebral wasteland of socially acceptable dreams, desires and accountabilities. Cares, concerns and pleasantries litter this dungeon of despair. And I am running out of hope…for I can sense the brutality beyond. Occasionally I am allowed glimpses of the violence that I could have been a party too...had I only surrendered to my least better judgment and accepted a shared life of debauchery with my insanity. But I chose the path of the righteous.

   I hear the screams coming from beyond. From my tortured Angel.

And I promised her, I would treat her well…my sweet Angel…so help me Jesus.

So help me Jesus!

What little hope I have left I try and focus on death. I hope that our God is a merciful God who will see my sacrifices and allow me to stroll hand in hand with Zephon in the shine of paradise’s everlasting glory, while the other me suffers the eternal fires of Sheol, dying more painfully each day suckling the venomous poison from Elihu’s fiery cock.

Oh, Shame on me! How is it possible that I even consider such absurdities? To do so is to admit I am not better than my own other self.

Were those sirens I heard from beyond?

Panic…struggle…gunshots…pain.

Not yet.

Soon enough. It will be so.

One cannot survive for long without some decency. Without some remorse. Some compassion. Some understanding of why it’s right to help an old woman across the street but wrong to push her out into oncoming traffic. Some sense of why it’s good to make love and procreate but bad to sodomize forcefully and murder.  

At the very least, without some semblance of sanity. 

Soon enough…our time will come.   

I believe I will be saved.

But the other me…

Squilibrato. Ludi. Skør. Krankzinnig. Sinnsyk. Demente. Klinicky šílené.

In pace requiescat!