Scrunched up in the car seat, legs against the steering wheel, smoking my 10th cigarette of the hour. Pacing the cigarette up and down my arm, each time getting just close enough to burn the white hairs on my arm the slightest bit, giving me a spark-like continuous shock - Some kind of feeling.
I’d say the worst part about having a “mental disease” is feeling alone. It’s as if the world pins you against a board, differentiating you from everyone else, making you an example of “what not to do.” You’re the rebel. Maybe some people think that’s cool, but rebellion can destroy someone if not used wisely.
As we all know, rebellion is fun to an extent. There’s the kind of rebellion most of us had growing up of rebelling against our parents. And then there’s also creative rebellion: doing things that no one else does, things that other people say you can’t do. This is the best kind of rebellion, especially if you’re inspiring others. This is the kind I strive for in my right mind.
Then there’s the third kind: the rebellion against living. The kind that causes you to stop thinking logically, the kind that makes you want to stop thinking altogether. Overwhelmed by the world, in the worst way possible. Striving for stillness in such a moving sphere.
