I find myself driven. Driven by a force that ceases to relent. A force that refuses to give to me an ounce of peace. It is because of this unholy force that I chose to become a writer in the first place, as no other outlet would suffice to purge the demon within. It does not matter how many tales of iniquity I complete, the demands upon me to create more of them, even more shocking and wicked than the first, are never ending. The more I choose to ignore them, the more unsustainable they become. I'm sure that people trained in psychology would label someone as myself as being quite insane, but that is not the case at all. I know from the experience of working in an insane asylum, that someone who is truly insane has lost all form of self control. I know exactly what I'm doing. Those that are spiritual might suspect that I'm possibly possessed, and that might be the case, but the simple fact is I feel I have been given a gift. A dark gift, but a gift none the less.
You see, I feel that there are many things in life that are much worse than death. A life plagued by monotony where the only relief to the endless cycle of day to day meaninglessness is the touch of lady luck (who never comes) or the grave. Or, all those lost souls standing on the corner with the cardboard signs and the looks of despair on their faces. My gift separates me from such an existence by driving me to succeed, even if it is beyond the point of humanity. Sometimes I wonder if it is indeed a curse or a blessing.
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