Confession of a Mad Man

I don’t answer intensely personal questions people ask for these shreds to pieces what is truly me the pieces are of no use to them though. The effort seems to be out of veiled envy, incisive curiosity or even to subtly insult. I am forced to uncover and introspect ask myself why I am under their prying lens. My life’s energy dissipates reorganizing the dislodged pieces in place once again. I don’t react when caustic comments people make on the manner I behave odd to them or on the way I do or don’t do things for them on asking or even for myself for these are innate traits I am born with discarding or changing which for their sake or walk on their footsteps they set would be to dispense with a vital part of my psyche and to exist as a void entity of no identity. I don’t demonstrate the feeling of appreciation articulately enough if people do something good to me sometimes for that action appears an expression overdone deceptively laden with fake display of gratitude which in essence hides the tacit expectation that the good done is what is deserved and due. When for this trait people criticize my sensitivity a part of my mind inherently obliged though is tortured to premature and painful demise I can’t endure for I don’t deserve the treatment and aims to maim a part of my bruised persona I can’t rejuvenate for it does no longer respond. People tell me, I have gone or going mad. I tell them, yes, if self-preservation is madness. That’s why I am alive still as a mad man at my will. I tell myself, so let it be. August 1, 2017.