I cannot move. Not for lack of physical ability, but for lack of motivation and desire. It is an odd sensation, to feel nothing, it's not an emptiness. To feel emptiness implies you feel a hole within you, it implies one is fully and utterly aware of the absence of a once present desire. It implies one was once whole, and now feels its disappearance. However, this is not what renders me immobile. Instead I feel the grasp of nothingness, an oblivion. To feel nothing is to be complacent with whatever unfolds, with no desire to change the course of any event, regardless of rain or hail. 

An individual can put themselves at great risk by doing nothing, and yet there is nothing within them that is left to rebel against the suffering they inflict upon themselves. If one where to feel empty, they may seek out some form of substitute for what it is they are missing. I knew a person who would waste their days with trivialities, simply to pass the time, for without such hobbies, it would mean they allowed each second to bring no distraction, they would then at once be painfully aware of their emptiness. 

I seek no distraction. I seek no distractions nor do I have any desire for completing trivialities. However, my colleague, unfortunately, stills passes the time with their mindless brooding and distracted behavior. And perhaps they too are losing faith in their desires, such as I have. But please understand reader, while the lack of desires may extend to the removal of an individual's desire to live, this does not necessarily mean they are automatically attracted to the notion of death. While such ideas may have many merits for someone in this state of mind, the presumption that they would carry out their own death sentence based on feelings of nothingness (not to be mistaken with emptiness) is preposterous. For you see, it is assuming that a person with no desires, suddenly has the desire to cease living. To die is as off putting as living, and so, although those of 'emptiness' may feel the pains of their position more, those who feel 'nothingness' are far worse for they cannot find solace in any form of activity, no distraction may sooth their troubles, and neither life nor death seems worth it. A terrible position to be placed in. 

A wretched notion placed upon a wretched lot. 

We humans deserve every ounce of suffering we can manage. All, that is, except for the spiraling madmen. Those who are slowly tumbling into madness, they deserve no suffering, no pain should be inflicted upon these people. Instead, they should be treated as kings and queens. For those becoming madmen, they revel in their pain. Their minds unravel while they still have some hold on reality, and here, here these people understand just how horrendous the human race truly is; and it is this very understanding which leads them to accept and welcome suffering. Therefor, in order for such individuals to suffer, they must be deprived of the pain they believe they deserve and wallow in their self-hatred and last moments of pure lucidity. 

With this in mind I do wonder at what stage I am, as I do to truly see the horrors within mans' history, and yet, am indifferent to their woeful cries. I sit upon my chair as if it be my throne, a throne for one who cares not for others nor for oneself. Un-moving, it is painfully obvious that today is no more than another remarkably mundane winter evening. Just as I stated that humans are a wretched lot, I feel my existence only exemplifies this, sulking in my withered apartment, I am sure that I blend into these withered walls with my own worn face and mind. Finding no comfort in the companionship of humanity nor the solitude away from it. A dreadfully unfortunate position to be placed in, considering it provides no solace. 

I have retreated from society to seek peace, and yet irony clings to me as I am still unable to find comfort. Instead, I lie awake through wretched days and nights, becoming nothing more than another ornament in my crumbling drawing room. Its floral wall paper no longer distinguishable from the wood panel walls it peels itself off of. Even the desk that I now sit at seems to be following its lead, shedding its skin as it topples on uneven legs. It would be proper to note that although it had once been a refined room, filled with exquisite works of art and literature, it has since fallen into disarray along with the rest of my cluttered apartment. A once quality home has been transformed into one of shambles. With the kitchen flowing into the living quarters, plates reside in all areas; and the furniture and ornaments which once brought pride when onlookers admired their superficial magnificence, have all since been pushed aside, creating walls of house fittings and odd objects. An artist may look upon such walls and see inspiration, see the years of progression from wealth to the decent into mediocrity. Yet I see nothing more than a wall, a wretched, cluttered, barricade of lost desires. 

Currently, candles give birth to the only light within the drawing room, they provide a substitute for the sunlight that would have shone through my window, had it not retreated behind the clouds and smog of each passing winter day. Here I have decided to write my tale, my thoughts and my misgivings. In a sullen room, besides a filthy window, within a filthier apartment.

It is at this particular point in time that you, dear reader, must surely await what you presume to be my inevitable introduction. Perhaps you merely expect a name, or, god forbid, an age or physical description. However, I won't be giving you this information, and I will divulge with you the exact reason that I intend to withhold these seemingly minor details. 

You see, you have most certainly already formed some impression of my being, due to the mere explanation of my living quarters. This, in foresight, may have still been too much information since I do not wish to distance you. For some individuals may quickly lose interest in my tale purely because I do not fit the mold of their expectations. You see, there are no exception to this rule, all of us have some form of preconceived prejudice to even the smallest of matters, and so, it is with an assured mind that I withhold certain information from you for the benefit of the majority. For if I were to tell you, then the majority may not read this, and that would truly be a disappointment.

Now, on to the matter at hand, to pen a tale with the preponderance of my mentality in lieu of an endearing plot may lead others to consider me a mad man, and indeed I have already been thought to possess a manic nature. I am thought to be someone who is only silent due to my ramblings taking the form of written lunacy rather than verbal yawps.  But be kind dear reader, for madness and sanity are one and the same. And my disposition to act in certain nontraditional manners comes about solely because of my complete and utter understanding of our race's need for unity and conformity. With herds of citizens following trends of bowler hats and velvet collars, and checkered shawls and silks, they strut as if these materials provided more truths than their own minds and eyes.

This is nothing short of absurdity! 

It is this behavior that leads to me to state, with great displeasure, that only few have managed to grasp a substantial understanding of how this conformity, which we now call the norm, is utterly and purely perverse. And so, in response to our insensate monotonous life, I reject all notions of regularity, and in turn, am thought to be mad for my rational decision of being an unwilling member of traditionalism and compliance. This presumption of my insanity therefor, forms the basis of my reasoning in placing my thoughts into writing, in the hopes that it may be read. And it is this conviction which others have, of my unsound mind, that fuels my contempt for others. It is these very contemptuous thoughts which prompted me to retreat to this darkened drawing room and begin this manuscript. 

Now, it should be noted that the following narrative may very well have extended periods of nonsensical blather among other accounts of a misunderstood life and detailed records of the inner most workings of my respectable and unsung mind. This, in its purest form, is the writings of a spited man. You may say what you want, yet regardless of your voiced opinions, there is no denying that there is an alluring nature to 'quick witted' sounding babble, and a seductive audacity for the man who speaks such bold absurdities. Of course you should not presume that I would coerce others such as yourself to consider my grand notions as universal truths, although I do believe they should be regarded as such. Instead, I merely hope that you understand how such truths are what my beliefs are grounded on. After all, one may not agree with a great tyrant, yet their passion to fulfill their goal and determination to act upon their belief must be admired, and can be understood when one is privy to what they saw as truth. I do not allude to the fact that I have stooped to the great cruelty of those such as tyrants, yet I yearn for the passion such individuals held to reside within me. 

Along with this, you must understand reader, that it is of the utmost importance that you do not mistake all of my wayward thoughts for precise, polished concepts. The reason being, should Galileo come before me, and state that each of my propositions be false, and should he give mighty reasons for each claim of falsity, then I would gladly retreat. Yet there are few greats who live in our current time, and hardly any noble men worth mentioning, who could do just that.

For now my only curiosity would be the wondering of which beliefs you, dear reader, will take upon your shoulders and wear as a crown by the time this book has concluded, which notions you reject, and what ideals you perceive to be your very own, marvelous, truths. For there may be universal rules, however the universal truths are limited to those of more mathematical and scientific nature. Any belief grounded truth is mere moral/ethical relativism, and so, no morals, ethics or beliefs can be accepted by all. With this in mind I will present to you, my belief of what should be all universal truths, at the very least, the truths which rule my waking hours and sway my every action and behavior. 

All I endeavor to write is that which enters my mind, and as such, any conclusions that I may achieve are manifestations of my logical ludicrousness. An act, some may describe, as the twisting of facts to suit the apparent appealing logic that I have composed by, and for, myself. Yet I assure you, these facts are no more twisted than my mind, and I am inclined to believe that I am not of an unsound nature. The allegations upon me that state that I am manic, are only the declarations of individuals who hold animosity towards either the unknown or the uncommon, a hostile behavior they direct only to those unlike themselves. A terrible waste of a being in my opinion, for they are deprived of greater views, unable to challenge beliefs and tied down to one set of unwavering values. To a larger extent, they are incapable of even accepting anything which I shall write. Perhaps those of closed mind have already left us, if so, then reader I congratulate you. Those who have left us were merely frightened by the thought that I would present beliefs which contradicted theirs, or present a life too untastefl for their palate. They scurried off by the mention of a different mindset before hearing what my mind had to say. For we are far from beginning our story, we are merely sorting through the seekers of truth, and the ones who flee from dissimilar notions. Among these propositions of what I call truths however, I will have the need to state my own backstory, a detestable story I must admit, for I tend to dislike rummaging through my horrid history, not because of its unappealing nature, but simply due to the fact that one should not dwell on the past, and my past has more of a hint of discomfort, so to speak, for me. However, it is a necessary input for you to understand how I have both become the person I am today, and to add example and further understanding to that which I will later state. 

Of course, you surely know that true horror in works of literary nature are only ever present when reality partakes in the tale. It is because of this that I shall add such elements of truth, in the form of my life. I shall leave them woven on this tapestry of words, and then, you may taste the horror in a life once lived. And while I neither expect nor solicit belief in what I write, I state, with the knowledge that you may disregard the following words, this written lunacy is indisputably based on my truths. I am a merely attempting to express that which may very well become, or possibly currently be, unwelcomed. 

These are my thoughts, and just like most human thoughts they are random and without pattern.  Unpredictable and at times unstable. Those of keen eye would have noticed that I said most people have such rapidity in their thoughts, but not all. This is because those who we have already established have left this book to find something which suit their reading pallet more, they are the ones who have monotony in their thoughts. Perhaps not all the time, for surely there must be some form of unpredictability in their minds. I must believe that this unpredictability is present in them for otherwise, they live sorry lives that I cannot comprehend nor commend. Those who follow the unity through conformity without question, it is they who may have less randomness within their minds, living in a world more dull than necessary. You must understand that to have such unpredictable mindsets are not always a hindrance, but rather, its opposite is. Therefore, you cannot judge me for the rapidity of my ever-changing thoughts, they are fleeting and temporary, but irrevocably mine. And if my mind opts to speak of one thing at one moment and then another in the next then it will do so. For I, at the very least, am the author of this novel, if not of my life. I say this with conviction, for societies tend to have a predisposition to contort lives in such a way that its conformity deteriorates one’s soul. Creating unity only with the harmful removal of individuality. I had once thought that a life of repugnance surely could not be all that is lying in wait for the members of humanity, and yet perhaps that is only present due to the lack of humanity which resides within so many. However we are diverging into topics of interest that will surely take center stage in the latter parts of this book. 

These writing are but a mere escape from the confines of my mind. For while I allow my thoughts to cease their incessant echoing within my mind, their words seep onto the page before me. Sickly sweet with the happiness they are more than whispers, mocking me with their now physical manifestation. 

Unfortunately, I myself must admit that I place no faith in my mind when seeking solace or silence. For it pervades my every waking hour with incessant thoughts, leading to months with nothing to show but my ramblings scrawled into incoherency. Nothing but what will soon be forgotten views now written upon this paper. How it disturbs me to know that however many times I address you reader, your existence is not unquestionable. For this writing serves the purpose to contain my babbling thoughts and reasoning's for me and me alone.  For now, what could possibly goad me to such an extent that I am spurred to put these thoughts into any chronological or sensible order? Particularly if they have little to no chance of being seen by another's eyes. 

I pray that you never have the burning urge to write. I say this due to the fact that to be inspired is a dreadful thing. It removes one from reality and it inexplicitly forces one to delve into whichever form of art they are knowledgeable in. Only once it has run its course will one realize the full extent of what they have completed and the time and slumber one has sacrificed unknowingly. This sacrifice may present itself in small amounts such as in minutes or hours, but for the truly inspired they are completely engrossed in their artistic urge that full seasons may go by as quickly as they came. For some, such as I, their chosen form of art is writing. But be warned, to write well is a disastrous process, for an individual must be plagued with words etched into their consciousness, and the removal of such lettering may only be attempted through writing. With new phrases and thoughts being carved into the chaos of the mind continuously, only the individual is privy to full extent of their suffering and madness. It is at this stage that I decided that my writing must begin, for if not, a man may go mad with the company of their own thoughts. There may be some individuals who have the ability to harness such mental frenzy and present it into coherent writing which can be interpreted as an artistic creation. However, these people are simply madmen who are merely more learned in the ways of writing than others, allowing their thoughts room on parchment, while others suffer in silence with the words trapped within their own minds. Now if you have ever been inspired or simply itched to speak your mind, and have not found peace in your own writing, you may be prone to becoming silent in your disturbance. If this is the case then I extend my sympathies to you. If you have not, however, felt such a desire, then I remind you to not mock those individuals with a silent nature. For they are only silent due to the disturbance of their unquiet mentality, their thoughts creating more commotion than any spoken word ever could. We are not tight-lipped because we find solace in silence, but rather because our mind is already in such an uproar that any additional sound would be a deafening addition to our already clamorous thoughts. We are but mutes, unable to speak while a troubled mind leaks its worries and thoughts into our bodies, manifesting itself as introverted characteristics for each individual that experiences this. Such characteristics are neither voluntary nor wanted by the individual, and yet they are ever present. So, with confidence I say again, I pray you never have the urge to write, as I now do.

Perhaps I have drawled on for far too long prior to my story officially beginning, forgive me. I can now say with confidence, that with the scene now set, my warnings of writing now presented, and a story itching to be told more with each passing second, I shall begin. Let me introduce you to the life you hold in your hands, and the stories your eyes will soon devour…