"I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses." - Nietzsche I have no where else to go to say what I must say. These words are so desperate to be freed from their solace prison that i can hardly breathe at times. My marriage has become a place of war and desolation, even as my child blossoms. He is beautiful. Strong. A spirit, lent flesh and blood from my lust and loins. I do not know how to feel towards him, or what I "should" expect to feel. He cries, and it exhausts me. When he cannot be soothed, I feel irritation stir inside me, slowly smoldering into something more severe. When I feed him, when he plays with my fingers and smiles at me, I just follow the motions. I smile, I coo. I pet him and hold him, and display him with the same "pride" as i've seen everyone do. But I don't know what to feel. I should correct that, and say it simply; I don't know how to feel. Does it matter that I want to feel something? That I study his face, memorizing his expressions and his smile, desperately searching for some hint, or clue? Or is that simply not enough? What curse is this burden, then, to give me the power to copulate, to procreate, yet render me incapable of but the base animalistic emotions towards my seed? For so long, the cold, hard logic was God in my kingdom. The chaos, my careful lies and perfect gloves were my pride and joy. So what is this feeling, then? How can I feel empty, when there was NOTHING ever there? It is so infuriating. I have spent his entire life trying to understand what I am going through. How to process this. Three months, and all I have to show for it are gouges in my wedding band, some scars, and memories of mistakes that i've made. Memories of decisions that I now second-guess. Decisions that mean literally nothing to me, as simple as deciding on what I want for dinner, are now haunting my dreams. Words and phrases, such as "on principle" are slowly becoming dangerous barbs, and my sides are now home to hundreds of them, each drawing tiny pinpricks of blood. My wife was once like me. Or at the very least, she was a good enough actress to convince me she was. Pregnancy and the hormonal onslaught that her body suffered over those nine months took their toll. She remembered how to cry. How to "love." How to feel. And so, while I watched her grow, watched my son growing inside of her, I began to watch the woman that was my true mate, slowly transition into something else. I suppose some would say, grow into something more than just a creature like me. Her "feelings" towards me changed, subtly at first, slowly burning into something beyond our mutually beneficial coexistance. She loves me now, and hates me. I thought that having pets would help her. I hoped that if we brought two domesticated people into our lives, two people that know what we are, what we are capable of, she would remember what she was. What we were... What I am. And so, I moved us into a home with two of the best "cattle" I've ever had in my life. Two people who are dependant on us for their social needs, as well as their financial needs. Two people who take care of the home, and handle the mundane affairs, leaving the primal tasks to us. I defend our home, and I defend our interests, to the death as necessary. Our "otherworldy" business ventures and shadow world investments are managed and maintained by the hand beneath the glove, and they both know that. Accept that. And yet, even having these two "pets" did not sway her. She told me, back before she became human, that she always won. That she would always win. And so, now, more than a year later, here I am, at a near loss of words. My carefully constructed world goes on around me, without any need from me for it to maintain its steady orbit. My son slumbers blissfully, and my bed is missing half of its usual occupancy. My wife would rather sleep with my son, away from his monstrous father. And the monster sits here, chipping away at the tempest raging in his core, one paltry word at a time, spilling his soul onto paper to be viewed by complete strangers. What have I become? And worse still, what will I be when the dust settles? Who will be there with me? I know that I will survive this, because that is what I do. But is it worth it if she is not here for the ride? Ironic that my own lot in life should now coincide with all of those whom I have walked on. My own struggles and toils, parallel to those of my victims. It is so easy to manipulate people to my whims, but I am learning just how hard it is to convince anyone that I can be more than a monster... Especially myself.

And so I find myself, drawn back to this familiar haunt. Its fascinating to see who has remained steadfast to this place. Those whose desire for companionship has become so great, whose desire for acknowledgment has consumed them to such an extent that even the anonymous compassion of strangers worlds away make them feel relevant. Make them feel alive. But who am I to judge? I speak only of things that I seek to understand, not of absolutes. My world has changed; my world is changing. All of our worlds are changing, to different extents. Unspeakable things, grotesque atrocities once reserved for the most heinous of enemies are becoming the standard for new world orders. Martyrdom and fanatical nihilism are becoming a means to an end. Chaos rides the wind, bringing with her screams and the stench of decay. I wonder if you people, cursed and blessed with the beautiful ability to wrap yourself cozy in a mantle of ignorant bliss and naivety, can smell the decay of the human spirit. The world is becoming as much a monster as I. Children gunned down in te sanctity of the first world, our ideals and "liberties" raped and then the tattered remains paraded, shoved to the forefront of our lives as "necessary evils" to protect us from the big bad "terrorists" in any country not partaking in our government's agenda. Do not mistake my words for protest, or for discouraged patriotism. Chaos is my beautiful mistress, far too seductive for me to resist. We are all her children; in my case by nature, the rest of you her unruly bastards, born with empathy. My moral code is merely a guidelines for convenience. I do not pretend anymore to care; why wear a glove when you have no need of one? I know what I am, and my enemies learn as well. There is a place for darkness in my world, and in it my kind walk free.

Hello, dark muse. I was not aware you prowled here, but with that knowledge, it expands the depths of my depravity that I am willing to share, and enables me a more eloquent hand in my navigations through my psyche. I must admit, I am amused with you. I did not know you even knew this existed, much less that you would read this one's secret probe into the soul of what we are... wolves in the skin of man. I hope it sheds some light, and lets us speak in ways that we otherwise would have difficulty sharing. To quote a song that amuses me, "This mask I polish in the evening by the morning looks like shit." Honestly, how long can one maintain the same visage, without scorn, without disdain? I marvel at the humans, who use their fallacy of love to glue themselves to one another, to themselves. Try to understand, that while I marvel at the psychological ability to create an emotion, especially the illusion of love, I do not envy it. I do not long for it. The ease at which I manipulate my 'loved' ones would stun most of you, would leave you awestruck. As a male, the simple task of bringing tears to my eyes is enough to reduce most of my family into mother hens, desperate to make things right in my life. Anyway. I digress. I have accepted the decision to lance the festering sore that has been a thorn in my side for years. I spent four years with someone. I learned so many critical components to a relationship, learned so many things. I can say with confidence that I have become much more talented in concealing myself, and that I am a better monster than I have ever been before. Four years of her life, spent on an investment into a future with a sociopath. I will never know the sting of remorse, or the aches of a broken heart. I will never know anything more than the contentment I feel after I destroy something, after I apply myself and accomplish one nefarious end or another. I do think I will miss some parts of the relationship, but it is certainly time for this one to end. I had enough respect for her, not to warp her mind. To twist her into my loving, doting puppet. She was special, and she always will be, I think. But she is not meant to be mine. Or rather, I am no longer interested in her being mine.The only part that irritates me, honestly, is that I will have the same financial duress I've had the past months. The reason I got a job was to overcome that, and now it is the issue once more. And I also dislike the damage losing her will do to my family. They cared about her. And now I have to put out those fires. I also have yet to decide which approach I intend to take to put out those fires. Obviously I will not allow myself to become the heartless, adulterous bastard. That is not beneficial to my life at all, and thus rules out the truth as an option. I will take partial responsibility, and blame myself of course, a little martyrdom never hurt any cause. Except for the ones where they blow themselves up. On the bright side, life goes on. I don't have downtime, because I am, as you well know, a heartless mutation with no morals. My biggest problem now, is figuring out what mask to don next. There is much work to be done, but I've got all the time in the world. "I'm sorry for the demon I've become... you should be sorry for the angel you are not. I apologize for the cruel things that I did. But I don't regret one single word I said. Just walk away, make it easy on yourself. Just walk away, please release me from this hell. Just walk away, there's just nothing left to feel. Just walk away, pretend none of this is real. Could you forgive me if I told you that I cared? Please forgive me for laughing when you'd fall, I'm so sorry but I never cared at all."

Today is an interesting day. I have been found out. My mate, my fiance, has discovered what an abomination that she almost consigned herself to spending the rest of her life with. A fortunate discovery for her, less fortunate for me. I do have a job now, so I will survive, but it will be an arduous journey. Pity, really. I enjoyed her company, most of the time. Life is what it is. I have always wondered how grief would feel. Sorrow, pain. Four years into a relationship, and the most I feel at losing her is discomfort, laced with some irritation. Perhaps later, I will write something much more complex and interesting than this entry. I imagine a normal person finds it comforting to know that somewhere, someone knows their trouble, and sympathizes with them, feels their pain. Perhaps I, too, will find some small degree of comfort in this. Enjoy your evening, writers.

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} Oscar Wilde once said "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." In most cases, Oscar Wilde eloquently explained the nature of our species. I would have liked to meet him. It has been months since I last visited this website. Posting here in the first place was a curious endeavor to say the least, but here I am once more. I feed the flames of my vanity and grandeur, ever the pawn of my own manipulations. To get you current, let me tell you the major events since last we spoke. That whom hunted me, abandoned me for easier game. I am still not entirely sure who did the hunting, but I do know that they were easily spooked. My secret, my delicate, eloquent secret, turned out to be but another disappointment. A short lived comraderie that faded as quickly as it formed, as random as the genetic modification that creates my kind amongst yours. I had hoped, which was so out of character, that she would have been like me. The challenge, of taming as dangerous and as wild a beast as I, would have been glorious. The battles, raging on for days, weeks, months? Exquisite. However, she proved herself to be little more than a narcissistic parasite, (not unlike myself), with two major flaws. First, she was ruled by a lack of self control. Her various addictions should have been a warning, but I presumed they were but intentional character defects to her mask. The second flaw, perhaps but an extension of the first, was her need to fight authority. Her need to have no equal, to know no structure. To have everything handed to her, without any exertion. She left. To greener pastures, with more narcotics, with less structure. Less discipline, less logic. Ruled by the unfortunate emotions of a young adult. Pity, really. I had such high hopes for finding a kindred spirit. In regards to my blood, my sister, well, the devil did get his dues. She has been revealed as a liar, and she suffers the brand of my disdain and that of my family till the day she dies. A mother's love only covers so many mistakes, you see, and the lies she told, well, they took a lot of that love and suffocated it. And here I had thought vengeance would take years. Sometimes revenge is delicious even lukewarm. So few know what I am. Nothing living knows who I am. This discomfort, this dissatisfaction, the void has grown. The bleakness threatens to consume me some days, with no provocation. There is a cure to this, but it is proving to be an elusive drug. "The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit."

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 For the first time since I've started writing here, you will get a glimpse of actual emotion from me. What happened was both unexpected, and my emotional stimulation from it quite rare. I despise being caught off-guard, it equates roughly to losing control of a situation, and that is not something that happens when a monster is involved. It started with a monstrous tactical error on my part--- I trusted that after the emotional devastation and despair my sister inflicted on my mother and her side of the family, that my mother would be both intelligent and cautious, and not allow her to move back in with her. I was wrong. Again, the idiocy of the human condition astounds me. And for the last time, it has caught me off-guard. There is a lesson to be learned here, and I have learned it. The paradox of love knows no boundaries, and when it can, which is more often than not, ruin carefully crafted plans and masterfully woven webs of intricacies. These things that happened have been rather unfortunate... but I have had many years to master my craft, and I am rather certain I can work this over into my favor. This will be a glimpse into how my mind works, of how I wrap myself in shadows even in the bright light of day. To start, a tale of betrayal. My sister, a deceitful, manipulative, neurotic wretch, hit adolescence. A rough, emotional time for females. Hormones were broiling over, and her desire for attention, for sympathy, grew too great to contain. Too great to control. I made an actual attempt to keep her away from the idiot youth, away from the drugs, and the violence, but it was a great task. I am older than her by four years, so there was only so much I could do. I had a ... project ... at that time, an interesting, malleable lump of humanity that I could break and reform as many times as I needed to create the perfect pawn. As it takes a lot of work to reform someone's entire personality, I obviously had to spend a lot of time with this pawn. I had him at my house on a daily basis. We worked out, talked business, played video games, and throughout it all, I subliminally smashed his conscience and his moral compass, then installed my own into him. Where he once had morality, and compassion, I left cold, hard logic, tempered with the lingering touch of humanity. I made him stronger, better, colder. Near the end, however, I was giving him more slack on his leash. He had to walk on his own feet, so I let him establish relationships with other people, to test my skills at creating my own legacy. To see if I could condition someone to be like me. The results were disgusting. Instead of holding to the code I had taught him, he desecrated it. He turned it into something of his own, something putrid. He became a monster, but not one like me. He became a pathological liar, and he almost became a rapist. As much work as I had put into him, this was disheartening to say the least, but before I could cut all ties with him and scrap the project, there were things that had to be done, protocols to be followed. He had to be broken, one final time, and he had to learn to fear the consequences of his actions. After I took care of those things, I cut my losses. My sister didn't handle that loss well--- In fact, to cope, she created herself either a fantastic lie, or perhaps more astutely--- she created herself a fantasy, a delusional with serious societal and legal repercussions, had anyone truly believed her. Three, four years later, she's moved back in with my mother. As you can see, this is a problem for me. Principally, I cannot forsake my fury at her actions against me. Principally, I cannot end my crusade against her happiness and wellbeing, despite the ramifications that my disdain for her will have with my mother's side of the family. And now, I cannot draw on my mother's resources for financial support, as my sister's medication and doctors alone will drain my mother, not to mention the mundane and trivial garbage she receives when she manipulates her 'loved' ones into taking her shopping or buying her things off the internet. I cannot visit my mother's house, because while I am fond of my grandparents and mother, I would rather crucify my sister on an inverted cross then visit while she is there. I do not when a new player enters my game. I have humiliated her, I have shamed her, broken her. I took her friends away, and forced her to have to go to a different school. I ripped apart the very foundations she had spent her lifetime building with some of my family when she lied to her counselors about me, lied to my family about me. I may not believe in love, but I do believe in ownership. My family is just that--- mine. They are my property, my flock. I must protect them from the wickedness of this world, even that which they cannot see. Not from some sense of loyalty, or kinship, but because they are my sheep, and they are helpless to the dangers of the world. It is my obligation to defend them just as I would my car, or my apartment. Such is the way of the beast. But now, there is a storm. A mighty storm, that is blowing tempest winds that I cannot control. I cannot bend the lightning to my will, nor can I tame the raging fury. But I can steer it in my favor. My father, and his wife, are not poor. They are upper-middle class. In September, I will need a car. My sister was a financial drain on my father and his side of the family. With her out of my way, there are countless doors open. I can approach this storm from any direction, and not only will I, I will win. I will emerge victorious. My stepmother spent the better part of half my life trying to break me. She slammed herself against me, time after time, hoping to pound me into a mold. She tore herself to pieces, because she made one huge tactical error: she presumed that I was capable of being broken. I am no fierce stallion, powerful and dangerous, yet potentially tamed. I am no lion, to be browbeaten into meekness, to be admired by children on field trips to the zoo. I am a different type of predator, a monster that would make both the lion and the stallion uncomfortable... the type of predator that even a predator must acknowledge, must recognize, and grudgingly respect. She made the mistake of presuming she was in control. Just as I spent the better part of my life working my father, his wife, and their relationship in the palms of my hand like wet clay, I will now spend the next few weeks building new bridges. Putting out fires still burning from years ago when I left my father's home. I will take my father, my father's parents, and my step-mother from my sister. I will make them mine, and I will make them resent her, despise her for the cancerous abomination that she is. I will have everything they would have given her, and everything they will give me. I have spent the better part of a year working his mother to my side, and though she doesn't yet realize it, I have laid the foundation for her to replace her affection and regard for my sister with disgust and scorn. To instead trade in love and forgiveness for care and concern for the damaged brother, and the damaged father, both torn apart by the actions of one forsaken sister. And that forsaken sister will learn a valuable lesson, maybe not for many years, but she will learn it. The devil gets his due. Oh, I nearly forgot. Someone is hunting me. I don't know who they are, or what they want, but I am being watched. Followed. And it has piqued the interest of my primal darkness deep within the confines of my glove and even of my monster. Whoever is following me has tried to get into my apartment, and has even stalked one of the two who share my roof. That alone would have once been enough to merit my aggression, but as I grow older, and wiser, I also become a better tactician. But when you follow me, for miles, and through mazes of neighborhoods, you earn yourself a true reward. You have my attention... and woe is you if you think to ever lose it.

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 I enjoy drugs, recreationally. I've never enjoyed marijuana, as it does little for me. I sit, and I stare, and I think, which intimidates people around me because of the quiet intensity of my gaze. Alcohol is a dear friend, however, and she and I spend many nights together, enjoying the company and complexities of one another. Opiates and muscle relaxers are also enjoyable, from time to time. Only in doses, though. Another of my favorite drugs? The ever-potent, vibrant complacency obtained by getting what I want. The warmth that seeps through my entire body as a well played plan comes to fruition is almost my favorite drug. The extent of my range of emotion consists of the following: anger, disgust, hate, contempt, lust. Confidence, pride, contentment. Broken down into the core fundamentals, I suppose that means I feel anger, lust, and contentment. Not a vast ocean of things to pull on to experience an occasion, but enough to see me through a day. With that said, there are no people in my life that do not benefit me in some way. I explained my range of emotions to better help one understand this concept--- I do not need friends, or loved ones. Normal humans, to me, are no more than entertainment at best. The rest of them? The reasons vary, from transportation to financial aid, to appeasing my lust. Some people, I simply 'befriend' to cause distress to someone they know that I dislike. To someone they know that dislikes me. When I was younger, in my teenage years, I found myself often surrounding myself with the strays of society, the outcasts of the public school system. The awkward, socially inept or angry, dark and oppressive that fit no niche until I carved one for them. Their pain, and their hunger for acceptance, for a pack, interested me. Their jagged edges, the rugged tears in the fibers of their being were sources of entertainment for days, weeks, months... even years in some cases. When I say entertainment, I suppose that paints my behavior in a negative light. Fair enough of an accusation, I admit, but at the same time, consider this. I gave them a place, where before me they had nothing. I gave them someone to admire, someone to relate to, and I put them together and gave them more. True, I did this to have my own following, to appease my ego and provide a means to scratch the itch of my perpetual boredom throughout high school, but at the same time, I left them better than I found them. Some have argued that point in defense of my humanity, argued that perhaps beneath the depravity and the apathy lies some buried pool of compassion and empathy. I don't agree, but in some ways I believe that their opinions and arguments in the defense of some hidden, lurking super-ego (Thank you, Freud) that has brought me here. Albeit this is a small, simple gesture towards exploring the confines of both my glove and of my monster, it is still a gesture. But I digress--- back to the point. I have 'friends' of every size, shape, breed, and texture. Much like some women have closets full of shoes to go with any number of outfits or occasions, I collect acquaintances and friends. If I must get physical with someone, for whatever reason, I have the appropriate intimidating, inked, muscular companions to instill an acceptable amount of menace. (However, and this is the simple truth of the matter, often I can "fell a foe with my gaze," -thank you Blue Foundation) I have intelligent, philosophical friends for when I feel like exploring my own perceptions of societal boundaries and political or religious theologies, and I have adulterous, 'slutty' acquaintances, though not for myself. They are tools that I use occasionally to get information, to get me discounts on products or on services I need rendered. (Both legal and illegal) The definition of friendship is not one I can truly conceptualize. The very thought of having someone in your life simply because you enjoy their presence? Because they make you feel 'better" is ... curious. It is a novel thing, and I would imagine if I could feel that, I would very much resemble Jack on his first visit to Christmas Town. However, given that friendship is beyond me, I will continue. Let me paint you a picture of myself, of my life. I live in an apartment, with two women. They are sisters, and they belong to me. I would kill anyone who hurt them, because they are mine. I have two cats, one I strongly dislike, and one that amuses me. I own reptiles and arachnids. I play video games, I visit my grandparents. I spend time with my mother, and I avoid my sister to spare my mother's feelings. I don't spare her feelings out of any compassion: I spare her feelings because if my mother is happy, she provides things for me. Money, food, things of that nature. I toy with letting my father earn my 'forgiveness,' but it is an elusive catch for him, and every time he comes close, he damns himself and burns another bridge. (In his defense, I make flimsy, flammable bridges as I enjoy him failing) I exercise, I spend time with my girls. I play video games with my uncle and my 'friends.' I have two male 'friends' that I do not use or manipulate often. They hold this high, prestigious position in my life because they demonstrated admirable amounts of loyalty, intelligence, and cunning without my prodding, in my favor. One helped me with my business and income, amongst other things. The other invited me to party as a stranger, and when things almost came to blows between myself and one of his friends, he sided with me, and has since then grown to be a sort of side project of mine. He is the aforementioned 'best friend' that might be dying, for those of you who were curious. Soon, I will add work into my routine of video gaming and socialization/parties. Extra finances means more entertainment, and given the fact that I could very well have a house in the next year or so rather than this apartment, it seems to almost be a necessity to get references and a source of income that is both legal and documented. Of all the drugs, and sources of entertainment I've listed so far, I have neglected to mention my favorite drug of all. She is that exquisite, dangerous thing I've not talked about in depth with anyone. My secret, could it be the same as hers?

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 I find myself drifting off into the netherworld of introversion. I find my soul to be a dark, dreary place devoid of landscape, devoid of texture. The methodical gears grind like clockwork, working the great beast of cold, calculating logic that permeates my being to the core. I wander a desolate void of compassionless thought, full of the merciless truths about everything and everyone in my life. The flaws, the faults, and the advantages to each relationship, each bond. The rigors of maintaining an outwards appearance of humanity, of empathy, is taxing, some days more than others, but a constant nonetheless. I come to with a jager bomb, then I savor the taste of my Camel Crush. I should apologize for misleading you with such negative adjectives in the previous paragraph, but I won't. I find my heartless logic, albeit a cold, abrasive companion, to be a stalwart accessory in my repertoire of tools and talents. The dark, desolate void I painted for you so vividly, the only home I have ever known. The safety of my mind, the sanctity of my soul... 'He who makes a beast out of himself, gets rid of the pains, of being a man' Dr. Samuel Johnson I like to think the good doctor would agree those of us born beasts gain the same benefit. Alcohol, solitude, and shadow make me rant like an ancient fool on his deathbed. I should pick a topic, but there are so many files carefully stored away in my mind, I don't even know where to begin. I could talk of my best friend, who might be dying. Or about the best friend before him, that almost died, then never forgave herself for living. Never forgave me, for helping her live. Or I could talk about that pretty new thing I have found. She is exquisite, and quite dangerous. Woe is the lot of he who falls for such a creature, if my suspicions prove true. Woe is the lot of any who fall for her charm. I stand beyond the mortal threshold of love and lust... at least, certainly love. But control, control is a constant. I must maintain that discipline, must not falter. My glove fits well, and well it should, as long as it took to craft, as much time, dedication. But enough, if I am tired of 'hearing' myself speak, I can only imagine how you feel. I am off to bed, to a world full of wolves that howl with me.

I am at an impasse. I do not know what to write; don't misquote me, everything that flows from my fingers is truth, and though sometimes it flows faster than I can think it through, it is truth. But I do not know where to go from here. Do I bridge the gap between then, and now? Do I tell you of my newest acquisition to my pack of pretty things? Do I explain the horrors and rigors of a childhood fraught with betrayal, neglect, abuse? The latter is less interesting than the former, I suppose--- it is hard to break a rebellious child, much less a monster with no remorse. Do I write, instead, of what brought me to this point, brought me to this outlet? I am undecided, or indifferent. One of the two. Regardless, I must trek onwards with this, and hope it soothes the rage and the desperation of the wolf trapped inside my human walls. I have not extensively studied the science of a 'cheater gene,' but if such a gene exists, it runs in the blood of my father's side of the family. His father, my grandfather, exhibits no signs of a monster, but adultery is prevalent in his history. The same can be said of my father, with an exception--- my father almost drowns in his control and dominance issues, coupled with his rage problems and loosely held self-control. Perhaps I can blame my previous adulteries on that 'gene.' But convenience is an elusive fruit for this monster, a rare taste. As I have no belief in the concept of love, it gives a rather excellent argument for physical affairs--- How can one cheat, when one feels nothing for any party involved? But then we dance around the issue of morality, of right and wrong. Many would damn me for my adultery, would say that I don't deserve to be 'loved,' would call me heartless. To those that would, I ask this. Who are you, who has tasted 'love,' who has tasted compassion, to judge one such as I that was cursed to live my life with a heart deaf, mute, and blind? Of course, that's just the manipulation speaking. Human standards teach us that adultery is wrong, is an atrocity. Breaking hearts and playing love games are simply not alright in society, unless love comes to play. So in my case, I doubt there is any scapegoat, any excuse. I have a desire, and I make that being desire me. I make that desire, mine. Which leads me to my next quandry. But that is for another night.

Men and women see things on a daily basis that they desire. Things they want, sometimes even things they need. Some of these things are out of their grasp, understandably so, and other things lurk just beyond the grasp of their mortal perception. Some desire God, some desire wealth. Some desire happiness, love, there are a myriad of material and less tangible things humanity seeks, day after day. I desire things too. I want things just out of my reach, I want things that I will never have. I want things that no matter how I grasp, my fingertips will never brush. I expect for my societal duties to someday involve a child. My flesh, my blood. A creature entirely dependant on me, with no defenses of its own. Probably even a child that will blossom like a rose, with emotions and happiness. Sociopathy did not run wild in my blood. None of my relatives ever were caught, or revealed, to be like me. I have never had anyone to rely on, never had to rely on anyone but myself. No mentor, no parent. No one to hold me close when I was afraid. But then again, I was never afraid. I never needed to be held. When my world got rough, I read. When that wasn't enough, I found a patch of dark, and I became one with it. I taught myself things about nature, about animals. About pain, about pleasure. But back to desire. When I desire a woman, there are few times when I don't have her. When I desire a good meal, there are few times I do not find myself that meal, whether I cook it myself or I have it made for me. When I desire a genre of music, or literature, so too do I find that for myself, or make it available to myself. So what, then, do I do when I desire a companion? Not a mate; I do not believe in love. No, I simply desire a companion. Someone like me, someone that can understand me. Most animals fear me. Dogs cower, or snarl. Cats growl, but usually warm up to me, because cats are snarky and they desire nothing more than attention, much like one of my kind. So I can not find my companionship in a hound, like in stories of old of man and his best friend. I cannot show myself to any of my normal 'friends,' because then every action they've ever done for me, or around me, would suddenly come under close scrutiny. 'Did the manipulations of xxx cause me to behave this way?' or 'Did I do that because xxx wanted me to?!' I must confess, I've grown fond of my mother as I've aged. While at first, she was equal parts lost, confused, and bewildered at parenting, I do admit her strength, albeit worn ragged and not very copious to begin with, is admirable. Raising a monster is hard, raising one to be as socially acceptable as I've maintained my glove... that takes class. But could I ever tell her what I am? I doubt it, because just as my sister betrayed me, my sister betrayed my mother. To lose both her children? To me, that is as natural as plucking a hair from my scalp. No true, tangible loss. That is the gift of monsterhood. But if I had, instead, the gift of motherhood? Perhaps it would destroy me. Regardless, it would destroy her, to know that she lost both her children. There lies my issue. To admit to sociopathy, is tantamount to death. Why is that? Does that even matter? Not to me.

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 After so many years, after incorporating my glove into being an intrinsic part of my being, it still amuses me to no ends the amount of effort it takes to demonstrate the proper responses to emotional stimuli. Some days I wonder if it is worth the effort to integrate reflections of compassion and empathy into my daily life, but I know the consequences of not doing so. I am not in a position that I could afford to lose the few people I've kept around me. Growing up as the monster that I am was exceptionally difficult for me for several reasons. The most critical component of that difficulty, the most difficult terrain to traverse, was the lack of control. As a 'child,' with no real world experience or wisdom, it was my duty to bow down to the whims of those called 'adults.' Those very same 'adults' that are just as clueless as we are about dealing with offspring, about the supposed budding relationship between mother and son, or father and son. But before I digress into the emotional bonds, or lack thereof in my case, I should get back to control. One of my greatest strengths, and greatest flaws of my childhood, was my inability to back down. To give ground, to surrender. I was more stubborn than a goat, and more often than not I was the spider in its web, masterfully spinning circumstances to my favor, to manipulate an outcome in my favor. Combined with the obvious damage caused to my non-sociopath sister by the divorce of my mother and father, I had an easy nesting ground to hone my skills into something fantastic. (Fantastic, by my standards. Woe is humanity, for those early years I had to get better and better at my craft) I am sure many of you reading this have dealt with something like divorce. I have studied how it affected the normal psyche extensively, to better perpetrate an individual affected by such an emotionally 'traumatic' event. I sometimes wonder how it would have effected me if I felt the 'grief,' the 'sadness' experienced by the loss of such a constant in one's life as a parent. Neither of my parents are dead, but then again, to me, they were never alive as much more than a provider. They gave me food, shelter, 'encouragement,' the mandatory things required by parent of the offspring. They showed moderate levels of favoritism for my sister, despite my higher intellect and interest in pleasing them, which caused a bit of a schism in our relationships. Regardless of their preferential treatment of her, however, I ... adored? ... her all the same. Do not mistake that word for anything that I am not attempting to imply. There has yet to be an event in my life, or the lives of anyone I've ever known, to convince me such a thing as 'love' exists. The concept of emotion is almost a fallacy, yet obviously my fellow humans experience them every day. The flawed logic in convincing ones' self that emotion exists is one thing, but to actually experience them is another. That aside, I did adore her. She was one of the few pure, innocent things in my life. I protected her, from my parents' arguments, emotional neglect, and from the detriments of a public school education as a minority. (We are Caucasian, white, and grew up in an environment of government housing and welfare. Do not mistake me, I am not racist, and hold no illusions of the supremacy of one race to another, all of humanity is the same cancer in my eyes) The last time I adored my sister, however, was years ago. I no longer count the years, the months, the weeks, nor days since she betrayed me, but she did betray me. It was exquisite, the pain and betrayal almost tangible... but was it real? Was that something lurking just out of reach of my perception, or was that simply the automatic, programmed response of my glove? I don't know, and I don't know if I ever will. But I digress, and then take this all over my life. 'I write from my heart,' so you must forgive the sporadic way in which I examine and dissect my life, my mistakes, my trials and my path. But to continue, she did betray me. A glorious betrayal, on many levels. I was nearly incarcerated for her betrayal, as was one of my friends. She told a translucent, yet excellent story, that I had no true and concrete way of disproving. And it tore both my father and his side of the family, as well as my mother and her's, down the middle. Despite that betrayal, that non-subtle reminder that trust is vulnerability, trust is weakness, trust is dangerous... I have never tasted hate for her. That particular wine is reserved for special, truly special people, and occasions that I doubt will ever grace... or disgrace... the pages of this 'diary.' What I do have left for this sister, this young woman that betrayed me and reminded me of so many things that I had lost sight of, is the closest thing to sadness I have ever felt. That, coupled with amusement, disgust, and annoyance. Of the four? Annoyance reigns supreme. Irony. The monster, betrayed by the one person he 'cared' for. The monster, stabbed in the back, left in the dirt bleeding... but this monster is hard to kill. This monster is hard to kill.

To start, I should explain what I mean by monster. What is a monster? I am a sociopath. I can imagine the thoughts running through your mind at that. The stories, usually the horrific ones, about creatures like Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson, of creatures just as wicked and foul found far and wide throughout this world. Before you let those fancies run wild, and carry you with them through the tangled forests of your imagination, take the reins. I am not a murderous, blood-thirsty killer. I am not a creature on a rampage, or an abomination seeking redemption. Children all start at the mental capacity, the emotional threshold, that I live. Selfish little creatures, interested only in their wants, their needs. Beautiful, simplistic. Innocent. But the difference between them and I, is that they grow older. They age, and as they age, their emotions develop. They ripen. Adolescence brings the innocent exploration of sexuality, of desire. Of love. They learn to put someone else, before them. They learn how not to hurt, how to nurture a relationship. How to care. My greatest accomplishment in that context so far in my life, is that I have created a facade. I am an average person, that graduated high school. I work, I party. I 'enjoy' myself. From a very early age, I watched. I watched children and adults react. I saw the response to certain emotional stimuli, and I emulated them. I mastered them. When I was younger, I could manipulate a parent or loved one into anything I wanted. Now, I can manipulate an absolute stranger into anything I want. In school, I could twine teachers and peer alike into any web I wanted, then suffocate them with it. (That wasn't a murderous forshadow or admission of any violence, simply an ironic pun.) I have had relationships. I've had many women, enjoyed the chase, the hunt, more times than I can remember. But of all of them, I've never once even glimpsed the elusive warmth of 'love.' The most I've felt towards any of them was jealousy, irritation, or satisfaction. Of the three, the second was the predominant, with the first as a close second. The satisfaction came and went, generally hand in hand with sex. I've never physically hurt any of the gentler sex, and I never would. No matter the depths of my rage, I know myself. I control myself. Control is an intrinsic part of my glove, you see, because if it ever slips, that woman would see me for what I am. If it ever slips, in front of anyone, they would see me, as what I am, and I doubt there are many anywhere, any that I know at least, that would have the capacity to handle that revelation. I see the people I surround myself with, these 'friends,' my 'family' even, experience a myriad of vastly contrasting emotions, and I wonder. I wonder what they'd feel like, I wonder what it'd be like to cry from sadness, from grief. I wonder what it would feel like to simply enjoy someone's company, to truly appreciate someone for that fact, and not for what I can get from them, from what they provide for me. I wonder, and I envy, but most of all I watch. I learn. I emulate. Perhaps someday, the illusion that I weave will once more be enough for me. The solitude of silence, of darkness, of aloneness, will hopefully some day be my home once more. But for now, I must examine myself, I must learn myself better. My dreams have brought me to this, and I will continue to hope that they guide me. I will hope that this excersize of communication is not in vain. How I envy you, howling, lone wolf, for being lone, but not lonely. How I long to feel the contentment you feel, stalking underneath the moon, without care, once more.