I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see.
What is good, and what is bad? What is it we do which allows us to be labeled with such characteristics? If a person does a bad thing, does that make him a bad person? A person who made a mistake? A person who was going through a rough time? Or was that simply his true side seeping through and into the light–a side which people choose to remain blind to even as they witness it? Last but not least, is anyone all good? Is anyone all bad?
I’m not a good person. Obviously, you all don’t know me. If you’ve read enough of my blog, then you may know a part of me…but you don’t really know me. I’m not sure anyone does; not even those closest to me. However, if you read my posts, then chances are you know me better than most of the people I’ve actually met.
There’s just a side to me that I’m constantly, consciously having to keep in check. I keep it hidden, under lock and key. Although, under certain circumstances, this part of me may bleed through like a scab that hasn’t fully healed. Every so often, the lock will break…
So, by now, most of you are probably wondering what the fuck this “side” to me is. What–are you a werewolf? Are there body parts in your freezer? Even worse–do you actually like the television show, Vampire Diaries?
Eh, not quite. Definitely not the last one. You see, this side to me–I can’t directly speak on it. It’s similar to Beatle Juice: say his name too many times and it’ll be bound to appear. But I will do what I can to paint you a picture.
“I’m not sure what I am. I just know there’s something dark inside me. I hide it. But it’s there. Always. And when he’s driving, I feel alive. Half-sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don’t fight him. I don’t want to. He’s all I’ve got.”
This side to me…
It’s like some insatiable hunger–a thirst I can’t ever quench.
It’s a weakness that craves strength. An insecurity that howls with dominance.
It’s a thief that steals me from the rest–all my family and friends.
It’s a killer that stomps out my own life–like some forced suicide. It’s left me empty, hollow inside. No feelings left to care, no tears left to shed.
Like a marionette, it controls me. It’s hates me but can’t let go of me; loves me but can’t show me. I hate it. But I also love it; because of that, I can’t let go of it. No matter how much it takes, no matter how lonely it leaves me, some twisted part of me will always come back to it. Because, in a way, it’s all I have.
I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see. But then again… maybe that’s how it is for all of us.
How about you?
Thanks for reading!