This is a story that would put the works of old to shame, if only because it is the unbiased, unabashed, and unchanged viewpoint of a madman. Starting at the beginning makes far too little sense. I need you to feel as I felt. See as I saw. Die, as I died. You won't get an easy way out.
This is reality.
The night sky feels as though it has never been darker. As the blackened pits below beckon, crying out my name, I curse the notion of identity. Why must I be me? It could have been someone else, couldn't it have?
No, it couldn't. Anyone else would have killed themselves. But not I! I am beyond that point now, having tried so many fruitless times that the potential methods blend together. Autoerotic asphyxiation may as well have been hanging from a ceiling fan, adorned with black-gold-black patterned robes. If there is but one thing I will retain into the afterlife that I have created for myself, it is this. Darkness is soothing. Ignorance is beautiful.
Knowledge is fucking hell.
Knowledge is a plague we've had for centuries. The oldest disease, transmitted at birth, with a hundred per-cent fatality rate. And no cure. Knowledge makes us want more. Why does this work, why doesn't that? How? On what grounds, by what sciences? Who says? Him? Her? Whom? The truth is misquoted all too often: there are near infinite answers, but only a few questions. And so we were given the infinite curiosity of Pandora, but without the intelligence to ask the right questions, we fall far too short of solving ancient riddles. The answers are there. We just have to unlock them.
But.
There is no answer for men like myself. Without a proper goal before me as my love sinks to the depths of the universe, my mind turns black. Pinpoints of infinity cast light in few directions. What of the directions I know not of? Yes. Those too. But how would I colour infinity, if I knew how? The first thing that comes to mind is also the last thing. I made that remarkable discovery when I wandered the abyss of my own mind. I came to a door with insignias of my own corporation. Has my consciousness become a brand name? The smokestacks rise and bellow, gloating in their size and width - forgetting it was MAN who made them what they are. The door's locks imply that I want to escape from my own little corner of Hell. Flesh rots and maggots feast. Bodies with mouths open scream. One man's murder weapon is another man's heart surgeon - and a damn precise one, at that.
She was my Annabel. But she wasn't even real...
From the journal of Dimitrius Rasconce.
