Mad Writer

Admitting to yourself the truth. 

It always felt to Eugene as if he came from another world, maybe because he never fit in… or because he never really wanted to. Something deep within always made him believe he was different. He never really knew if it was a good thing or not, but he learned to embrace it. Coming to understand the pain of daggers pounding into his soul, he studies his own depression just as how I had observed it all along. Wounds so deep that words and sympathy cannot match the level of heartache, Eugene was crashing before my eyes. A room once filled with a swirling energy of blinding colors is now a deep black hole of cold gusting winds. Like a private journal, Eugene used his body as a canvas to write the words he could not speak.

I can hear the music blasting through his headphones from across the room. 

Covered in writing, I waited three hours for him to finish his thoughts or until he ran out of skin, whichever came first. The words written on his body were his pains, regrets, passions, losses, heartache, embarrassment, shame, wishfulness and surly much more than that. His stillness and quietude were means of emoting to the toxic events he fell victim. Through my inebriated lens I observe the pure and innocent, yet inescapably violent human existence.