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Inspiration used to come so easily when my thoughts were half-formed. It was as if I had not yet learned how to think, and so the thoughts took on their shape naturally, evolving with each passing mood and crystallizing, sometimes at least, into something pleasant. But my thoughts have form now, and function and a drive – a statement and a mission that makes it difficult to simply cut back and let my fingers fly over the keys, each stroke bringing with it some kind of revelation about the self. I have known myself, but have I forgotten myself?

I stare at the cursor blinking blankly at me, expectant, accusatory. Do I have nothing else to add? Or do I believe that no one else is listening? Anonymity was never the concern – my words were not meant to be heard but rather they were meant to be spoken, as the methodology by which I exorcised the demons that lived within me. Here I am years down the line and the demons that I have lived with continue to beat within my breast, and yet I have given them no voice. Have I learned to coexist with my demons?

I sleep alone at night and have to keep the television on to silence the voices that drum within me. This is not the peaceful slumber of the conquering but rather the frightened retreat of the conquered: I am losing the battle for my own soul. I have stacked my walls so high that even I feel drowned by them – I cannot see but the lines of iron and stone that I have laid between myself and the rest of mankind. In my hardness I have driven all away. If I am a man then I am an island, and soon the darkness will once more overcome me and I shall be the shadow again. But this time I shall be a broken shadow, no longer a champion but something else, something disconnected from its purpose – something weaker by comparison; and I fear that in that weakness I shall falter and I shall fail.

I wish, as all men do, that I could see the path before me. But I have chosen the dark, and that choice is my only comfort.

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