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El_Caponi
I journal all hours of the night piecing together what I have come to know as my confessional fragmented stream of consciousness. Writing isn’t going to save me- I’m not one to be saved. But I can’t help catch myself meticulously talking to the dead. And foolishly pretending someone is talking back. I do hear things- something- I hear freedom- I want to be free- I need to be free- I was taught that freedom is good- but what could potentially become of us once we are free? Alas, the unanswerable question feeding and slithering in my brain like a parasite.
 The real question is: Was I born this way or was I made this way? The only conclusion I have reached is that true excruciating madness tends to unravel subtly, and with precise incision.  I do not have a reason for mentally deteriorating at such a young age, other than perhaps it is how my brain has come to make sense of such a fast synthetic world of evolution.