My Obsession

I am hunkered down in the dark, waiting, just waiting. I am watching the wild movements around me, squinting through the cloying dark, trying to distinguish the distant shadows that draw my attention. I can't quite make them out. The darkness is so thick I can taste it. I can feel it clog my mouth and nose, suffocating me with its sweet cancerous ways, stuffing its extremities down my throat, perversely caressing my face. I imagine the darkness as a living entity. I personify it, giving it a will and thoughts. The Dark is a being with its own ideas, and they are not amiable. I know now that the darkness is after me, chasing me, following me forever, fighting to never relieve me of its grasp. I am Everyman; fighting to throw off the oppression of My Obsession.
I am walking down the road. Cars whiz by me going way over the speed limit, rush hour commuters worrying about their own problems; ignoring the lonely girl on the side of the highway. As I walk, I am drawn to the discernable differences in my opposite fields of vision. On the right, there is gray. Shiny metal, bright lights and plenty of speed. On my left is green. Beautiful trees, perfectly manicured lawns and individually glorified flowers. Industrial and rural, city and country. Good and bad, right and wrong. Can everything break down into these neat little compartments? Can I label and file my thoughts away neatly, to be ever organized, perfect, and impenetrable? Can I do this with people, places, and emotions? Can I let my thoughts wander without losing track of myself?
I am lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, scrutinizing the water stains above where I lay my head. Each stain morphs into one specific morbid thought in my mind. The possible death and suffering of my parents, my sister, my friends... myself. If Peter Pan suddenly appeared at my window, there would be no flying in my story. It is so effortless for me to envision evil things; hatred, suffering and despair. All pleasant musings however, have been ripped from my mind, replaced with fear and paranoia, anxiety and foreboding. I am so dejected; I have run out of tears to spill.
I am standing in my bathroom, looking down as my blood spirals contentedly around the sides of the tub, slightly diluting as it washes away, only to be replaced by fresh drops moments later. I am lost in the endless rush of my life force spilling out of my body from the strawberry gashes that cover my arm. Moments ago I was overwhelmed with this destructive, violent urge. Now I wonder why. The angry slashes speak to me of contempt and anger, hatred of myself. I do not enjoy the pain, nor do I enjoy the hate. I enjoy nothing. I hate everything.
I am preparing. I am preparing myself for the dark ritual that has taken my soul and my heart. This ritual is a self sacrifice. I give myself over to the inhalation of spirits and ghosts into my mind, into my senses. Soon, I will be taken over, inhabited by the dark force that is my obsession. I have the tools of my trade laid out before me. Some are sharp. Some are soft. Some are glass. Some are metal. Some are big. Some are small. Some are hot. Some are cold. They all are evil.
I am doing all these things, but I still ask myself, "What are you doing?" I am conscious of my actions, aware of the physical movements I make, the contributions I make to conversations, but it is as if I am on the outside looking in. I can see what I am about to do, yet I cannot stop myself from doing it. I reason with myself. I convince myself that while I may be bad, everyone else around me is worse. As long as I am the best it will be alright, right? As long as I am not as bad as she is, it will be okay. Right? As long as I keep it under control, I'll be just fine. Right? As long as I rest tomorrow, I will be okay today... right? Right?
My life has become a never ending cycle of lunacy and neurosis, my thoughts are always moving, not wandering aimlessly, but fleeting willfully from one subject to another, never resting, never stopping. Normal life ceases to exist without the mortal routine of sleep and food. Normal thought goes out the window without human reason to keep it in check. Normal people disappear from my life, no one wanting the responsibility that is now me. I am little more than an animal, surviving on instinct and determination alone. My mind has become twisted; my thoughts are no longer under my own control. There is an unseen hand guiding me, a force pushing me, telling me I am right, that everyone else is wrong. This still small voice... I have convinced myself it is God, but sometimes I question this decision. Could it be the devil, convincing me to stray from the path of righteousness?
Partaking in my obsession is literally like entering another world. Everything you have come to know and understand is flipped upside down, shaken sideways, and put back crooked. The social structure is altered, the hierarchy turned around. Importance placed on objects and items, favorite things, and even people is skewed, disregarded and discounted. Something small enough to disappear in the palm of your hand takes the place of your children, your friends, your loves and values. It feeds you and nourishes your body solely on its lies and deceptions, giving you just enough pleasure to want more. It takes everything. Nothing is off limits. Nothing can be saved. It takes your pride, your love, your diligence and vigilance, everything you care about, and everything you don't care about. My obsession does not discriminate.
As I lie awake, the warm embrace of sleep eluding me, disturbing images flash behind my eyes. I see the bewildered faces of children whose parents no longer want them. I see a twisted and broken lump of flesh that just minutes before was a living, breathing human being. I see a row of men walking down the street, armed with makeshift weapons, chanting a name over and over; hunting for the hunter. I see a woman, bent over her child to protect him from the rage of her husband, under the influence of my obsession, unknowingly, or uncaringly, scarring his offspring for life. I see once promising young people with dead eyes and dead hearts. Most of all, I see myself. I see myself falling into an endless pit of despair and evil desires. I watch as I slip farther and farther away from the person I once was. At this moment, I realize that I will never get that person back. I will never be the same. In the wake of this realization comes a decision; the decision to let my obsession dissipate. I may not be the same, but I will recover. I will be better. I will no longer be obsessed.