its funny sometimes, the aftermath of a thought can be more powerful than the thought itself. it eats at you like a cancer. just a sly remark, a throw away comment, something so insidious and small that it slips through your defences and buries a hole so deep that you can't trace it. the thought remains, malign and misinformed, and just like fear breeds fear, one thought breeds another, until - BAM- there's an armada of those little fuckers making a beeline straight for your brain. 


how do you break the chain? how do you stop your conciousness accepting the raucous racket of discontentment and force it to focus instead on the serenity of happiness? what a strange thought, forced happiness; how often i have forced a smile onto my lips, forced a laugh even. anything to seem like them. because if you look like them, and act like them, they can't tell that on the inside you're not like them. they don't know you dream in blood and gunshots, they can't tell your deepest fantasy, they can't feel your malevolence towards them. 


all serial killers are brilliant actors. just like people with bipolar disorder, or the successful ones at least. its funny actually, the bipolar serial killers, well, their motivation wasn't to kill for the enjoyment of it like other kinds of serial killer. it was to project the image of yourself onto the victim and kill yourself, over and over, and over and over. because for someone with bipolar, there are times when to kill yourself once really doesn't give justice to the thoughts. its the only illness that makes you want to die twice. 


i've already killed my heart. that lump of tissue is diseased and vile. what's next? kill my sanity? and what after that? my body? by that point just a living shell for the person i once was.


thoughts are dangerous. at least to someone like me.