Why do I write? Elie Wiesel asked that question once. His answer was that he wrote to free himself somewhat of his nightmares. I have no excuse for such nightmares, but a much more subtle ‘night’ surrounds me, everything is so dark, details obscured; it feels safe, yes, but I am never quite enlightened enough to comprehend the simple point of existence. Why is my head filled with such thoughts that question the very point of existence of mankind’s futile attempt at… well, futility? Why is it that I have the ingrained need to think such monstrous things? Why me?

A genius is much like a child, trying to figure out new ways of dealing with his or her surroundings, but because so many things are so intuitively obvious to her, those things that are not, things barely visible to the common eye become the genius mind’s playground. In the meantime, the simple more mundane things slip from her grasp. The genius, you see, can never be normal, not without great difficulty, at least. 

This genius never really leaves her playground, that imaginary bubble she creates around herself to deal with the trite everyday of life, imposed by a society of idiots, barely perceptive enough to know that they are even capable of intelligent thought. In essence, the world is full of children, and ironically, for all I know and understand, I am yet still a child to it!

For I can hear the world cry, almost scream in agony, for how her children have sinned, and bore fruit eviler and more twisted with each passing season… What hope remains for the lowly human? O what potential, and what squander!