Pure.

This warfare of me and myself has been going on for decades. I am just now becoming aware of its affect on me. Me and my soul. What is a soul? A slide show of memories and experiences all circuiting at once, like a string of multicolored horses circling around a track? No. That metaphor uses the approval others and their desire to bend you to their own agendas.

Is it really up to a human being to end another's life to end? I don't think we should be the ones to decide when that should be. It destroys the clock.

These feelings, welling up inside me. They're becoming my secret place. The place I go when I don't want to think about anything logical, practical, real. It haunts me, when these emotions seem like my weakness. Like a kid stealing candy. It tastes so good, but the aftertaste smolders with guilt.

They feed me, keep me sane. Either that or keep me company in my own insanity. Which is better?

There is a filing cabinet in my mind. The kind of filing cabinet that you see in old offices and schools, where people shouldn't care, but they do. I try to file these secrets, to find a place where I can organize them and shape them into the opposite of chaos... but it's impossible. That's like trying to mold clay into a priceless gem. It doesn't have it in it.

Normal isn't in the glossary of these secrets. It's a quiet chaos. A low rumble of continuous, pulsing thunder. Like the sound of all the violins playing before the curtain opens. "I just want to be pure."

All I want. Is to be pure.