Normality died. ...well damn.

We all die at some point in our lives. You've heard that at least a million times, and I know I don't have to repeat it for you. But you know what? It sounds good and it's my story, so do me a favor and quit whining and listen. There are also some points in your life where you come to the sick realization that something, some part of you had died. You read that correctly. If you've been depressed or suicidal or even just a little sadistic, self-loathing, you will know what I'm talking about. There will always come that one moment where you realize you can never go back to the way you were. Something inside of you snapped/broke/twisted/burnt/whatever the bloody hell you wanna call it, it's GONE. For good. Forever. You are NEVER going to get it back.

Or at least, that's what I thought.

If you're reading this, that probably means that you're an artist. Pffft, who am I kidding? If you're reading this, you're me, realizing that you'll never want to show this disgrace of writing to the world again. But then again, this is what you get for writing at the earliest hours of the morning, right? Mom never really understood why i stayed up until ungodly hours of the morning. Nothing like being exhausted and on the point of passing out to get the creative juices flowing, eh?

I'm sorry, I strayed off topic there.

What were we talking about? ah, right. Death. The sweet end to the perfect life. …what bullshit. *cough* I'm sorry, it seems I'm in a bad mood tonight. Strange, I don't remember that. Ah, something must have died inside of me.

See, even if you don't KNOW or don't REALIZE that something's dying, it is. Happiness dies when it turns to sadness. Sadness dies when it turns to happiness. Love dies into heartache, self-confidence dies into self-loathing.

And so my story begins.

I'm a self-loathing perfectionist. A sadistic one at that. That's what I've called myself for the past year, though I think in my heart I always knew I would be different. Different, though perhaps not in a positive way. I think differently. I analyze differently. I speak differently. Write differently. Everything about me is different. Was it because I chose to be different? No. Normality, that one little sliver that had kept me stable for so long, died. And then my world was thrown into complete and utter chaos. Having Normality die is like having your mother die when you have ten other siblings and your dad walked out on you when you were two. No, in fact, its worse than that. You have no threshold, no grip on reality, no grip on yourself. Your lost, wandering through the darkness as blind as a bat. Your screwed, my friend, when you realize that Normality has died.

Do you get where I'm going with this? If your Normality has died, then you are like me. What are you? An outcast, perhaps. A writer. A singer. An artist. A brainiac. A loner. A prep. A jock. Whatever the hell you are, you are like me. Why? Because Normality chose not to live inside of us. It had bigger plans for all of us. Now what those are, I obviously don't know. Do I look like Jesus to you? …don't answer that, I'd rather not know.

I watched Normality die without so much as a second thought. But then the aftershock hit me. I wasn't normal anymore, I didn't fit in. where did I belong? I couldn't find the ones that thought like me, the ones that made me feel normal. And then I realized….that I was alone. Denial died into acceptance. Denial will eat you alive until there's nothing left to die. If you're different, fantastic. Admit it though. SCREAM it if you have to. No one's holding you back. Well, maybe yourself, if you're trying hard enough.

I'll give you the long story short: I'm an artist. A writer. I'm different than most of society. In fact, I'm pretty sure most artists are. We can paint with words and write a story with a simple painting, but we cannot adapt to natural human life. Everyone in this world is born the same. Some let Normality live on in their hearts, others, like us, throw caution to the wind and just let Normality die. What did it mean to us anyway? Oh, trust me, we'll learn here real fast that its important. Not having a grip on reality can either make you the greatest author/artist alive, or kill you faster than a bullet to the forehead.

But will it actually kill you?

The answer to that question changes with every person, with every artist. I still have yet to die. Parts of me have died, yes, but my heart is still beating. I'm still breathing. My life…goes on. I've come close, and every day I fear stepping even closer to death's embrace. Honestly, what do I have waiting for me on the other side? Don't answer that, it'll most likely be some kind of religious non-sense that will set the world on fire with controversies and discrimination. Thanks.
So tell me, my fellow artist, what happens when….when Normality dies, but the rejection of reality dies along with it?

What do you have left?

Why are you like me?