First paragraph

The exterior of my self made prison is a sight of unthinkable sentiments. Almost as if a single look, or gaze to the world outside holds you at mercy to the despairing puppeteer of living puppets, who will without question take a gun to his head to flee from the German Nazis knocking at his front door. Quite gladly now I would take his place on the floor and he take my sorry excuse for an existence. With thanks to the logical thinking from my dreams I see a different view to my irrational philosophy of day. However, at the darkest hour of night, the puppeteer and his living homicidal puppets frighten me enough to make me want to break out of the haze of a second life, into the more unreal depression of a first life that some would call reality.     

third paragraph

She sits as elegantly, just as a porcelain doll shipped from China would. The most beautiful smile is found on her face; polished to perfection, a glossy crimson colour, accompanied by spectacular blue eyes with a deep frown written deep inside them, which even the world renowned Marilyn Monroe would come to envy if she were to take a glance at them. The intensity of her company to any man or woman would, without a doubt, oblige them to get up and leave the very moment they arrive and sit down. Leaving her once again, abandoned, condemned to be alone. A silent cry and single tear leaks from the porcelain dolls living shadow, which gives evidence to how unhappy this elegant and beautiful creature of day and night really is.

Back to the delirious reality, a pseudo- quasi happy existence; nothing but the living shadow of the lifeless porcelain doll, rocking forth and back like a madman, locked in a straightjacket. With a forged face of sunshine, that is destined to create lies from burnt out embers for all time without an end. Till death do us part? The lucky ones are the ones to die first. The way my life is lived would turn even the sanest of minds into a feverish monstrosity scared witless of the daylight, that creeps shyly past the monotonous curtains hanging in front of the window. Trapped willingly in my chambers, the only place I know well; only will I venture out to use the facilities, or to find and retrieve an undeserved snack from an empty kitchen. Quite frequently my stomach would growl in protest at the lack of food; …I refuse to feed its lust for groceries.

The outbursts come daily now. I would transform into someone other than myself. Screaming murderous songs just like a wolf howling its sorrows and joys to the full moon, poised in a too perfect, epic position in a motion picture. Only I’m in complete solitary; no Hollywood director and crew are directing my actions, the ‘lusus naturae’ that lies deep within my mind has jurisdiction here. I am up creek without a paddle so to speak, held captive to the merciless delinquent of an imaginary conjuring.

Suicidal tendencies are now as difficult to resist as three hours of Oded Fehr on the big screen. Too frequently do jolts of despair image my self abused body jumping and never coming back down to earth, falling and never getting back up. And so it is the witching hour; the time of night when black magic is at its most effective on the physical and psychological mind and body that a wash of black shadows dance around my lifeless self. The great question of am I here, or am I not? Who is told what is and what isn’t, and would whoever this person is care to share with those desiring the answer?

My behaviour improvements are superficial only. They are only concerned with, and comprehend only what is on the surface. But how can you truly label and limit, characterize and clarify, explain and expound, distinguish and diagnose the superficial. I must beseech the fact that who is the form following the function of what, and what I am is permanent mask of lies. But to no avail and to no surprise my words are not taken into consideration. Do I bore you? Am I wearingly dull? Do I have a clumsy manner and little refinement? Am I soporific or perhaps cyanide to your presence? I hand you my deepest condolences. On the contrary, can you taste the sarcasm on my breath, or hear the contempt cynicism in my words.

I took a very strong liking to his mortal being. I was guilt-ridden with adulation and affection for him and him alone; with amity, ardency, I could only cherish and give all my devotion. In deep devotion, my fidelity flamed my fondness that was much more than mere friendship. I had an infatuation, a rapture of lust, a paroxysm of passion, a weakness and yearning. He was my Romeo, and I was his Juliet. But incontestably Cupid found this to be quite the predicament. And we all know how that ended. I died when he died; but to my discontentment my physical body refuses to make its demise. I am forced to suffer in this uncomfortable skin that the world curse me with. Because of him.