I am flawed and I am imperfect. I achieved nothing in my life that I could frame as being meaningful to me. At times, I feel as if my own friends have abandoned me, and even my foes have discarded me. I have lived to live a life with a face that isn't mine for so long; that I have precisely forgotten how to forgive myself. I kept on lying and lying, comforting myself that the unbearable guilt would shed one day, when the dread of my utter misery had forsaken me and blessed me with the heart for integrity.
My thoughts are cramped, very cramped, always cramped! At least 100 different thoughts at the same moment. And I could never truly express them verbally, or even by writing. Though they mentally tormented me, I had adapted to living with it. Past, present, future, my senses, myself, anyone, everyone, everything, what if, what if not, how about, how can I? Who can? How else can someone?
I always look around, no matter where I go, even when everything goes quiet, my heart races. I can't help but observe the melody and rhythm of my own heart. The flow of my own blood! The paleness of my own skin! I notice everything, even the most mundane of objects. Everything, how it was, how it could be, what if it changes when I come to it. And I had to deduct, then discard the mundane objects simultaneously.
So from childhood, I saw what others couldn't. I observed what others didn't. I felt what others couldn't, I heard noises which others couldn't—things I shouldn't have known. I saw far away, I saw colours which I wondered why no one else could see. I saw expressions, feelings, and actions that no one else could. I heard the faint cries of animals, their dying heart—pumping for the last time; the vibrations of their muscles and their desperation for survival.