Scribbles of the Insane #1
A dark walk through the mental psyche of the writer.
I stood in front of the miserable pane of glass known as a mirror, grabbing my toothbrush, I took time to look at my face, I wasn't the handsomest guy, bags under my eyes, wild hair, and the neutral face that perpetually looks like a frown. I squirted toothpaste onto the vibrating brush and flicked it on, taking the time to brush my teeth, taking every second to point out my flaws to me, making the time drag on. I was unattractive, I was lonely, any smile I had looked smug to the point even I wanted to beat my face in, all that and the libido to make all three of those torture. Needless to say, happiness was not exactly in my pursuit of social life, the agonizing torture of my face passed after I finished with my teeth, putting the brush away, I left the small bathroom. I went to my bedroom, corralling my two dogs on my way over.
During this time, I pondered, "Can someone have infinite charisma?" I know, a stupid question to ask, because we all met those guys or girls who had all the friends, all the boyfriends and girlfriends they could ever want at the snap of the fingers, but they don't exactly end well. They usually had good looks that looked like a product of gene mods, but good looks never last, they fade away in age. Some people go to others for money, intelligence, or personality, all three of those crumble upon discovery of dementia or Alzheimer's, or other mental illnesses. Humor was another possibility, but jokes can get old, and they get old really quick, and I found this happening to me, very rarely would I ever find a humorous moment in my day. All I really got was the small titters that a guy on the internet would tell me on Skype, I swear, that guy has a future in comedy. So no, charisma is not infinite, at least not in my book.
I crawled up in bed, wondering if I should just turn on a Youtube video or just stare in space, then I decided to do neither. I started to write this instead, while looks may not be perfect, and the mind may deteriorate, writing can live on. I know, sappy message, but I wrote this as I was thinking about it, but honestly, writing is the base ground of what we really know of the past or what might happen to the future, because stories are either written by the fresh minds of the youth or the wise minds of the elder, before their minds rot. While they may suffer from mental disorders or death, their writing lives on for them, to show others what minds belonged to yester year or in the present. So, as I'm ending this, I no longer feel depressed and broken, I don't feel happy, either, I feel relieved.