Ordinary

Today's been one of those days where I realize once again a basic truth: I am quite ordinary.
I am not the protagonist of any great story, nor am I an outstanding student. My personality is unique, to be sure. However, I am still, in basis, very mundane.
The greatest likelihood is that no biography will ever be written about me. My name will never fall into common usage in our society. I may not even be enough to get into my selected colleges.
I have no extracurricular activities, no major awards, no outstanding public service nor even outstanding grades. I suppose it disturbs me to think of such things.
For this reason I often write myself into fantastic situations, events that somehow render my personality particularly useful...
Aye, I am no Cinderella. But is it possible that I am not even the Fairy Godmother? Nor even a witch or a parent? Maybe I am of such a breed that I have no place even in fairy tales. But if this is truly the case, for what do I work? If nothing comes naturally to me, how should I expect labor to catch me up? And if I will always be behind, what is my purpose?
Here, now a spiral of negative thought draws me in and hypnotizes me. Over and over again thoughts repeat in their gloomy cycles, telling me how to feel.
I hope for a career of medicine, but what will become of me if this dream cannot be actualized? Am I to fall to the wayside, some confused being who is moderately educated, over-motivated and without resources? Why is it that I allow myself to think like this?
Because I enjoy it. Somewhere, some sick part of me feeds of the feeling of despair that dwells here, in this place where I have locked myself. I know I can escape, but I will not leave. It's repulsive. I torture myself with a sense of hopelessness, and angry beasts of the past rise to great me, to suck my blood and to feed of my pain.

There is something sensuous about insanity, and I cannot quite put my finger on why. It is not good, not proper and not enjoyable. But it is intriguing. The darker side of every psyche is drawn to the depths of insanity just as the eyes of a human are drawn to a crash on the side of the road. Periodically I enter brief episodes of what is probably the closest thing to true insanity that allows one to keeps control of themself. And in my mind, something dark and beautiful and gory and sexual and disgusting and entrancing rises out of dust like a snake, dripping with something deeper than blood; a special kind of gore reserved for the mind. I change. I imagine that if someone were to watch me, my pupils would dilate and my muscles would relax, my mouth opening ever so slightly and perhaps my nostrils flaring. My consciousness ebbs. I float away on a silver cloud of angry nothingness and watch the storm brewing below, in the underworld of myself. In Hades. The devil is neither man nor woman, just a creature with distinct characteristics of both sexes. I call it a "he" arbitrarily. He works among the reanimated bodies of human torture victims, walking slowly, confidently, in a way that makes you somehow hate and admire him, loathe and envy him. Your skin puckers and blisters, turning a bright angry read and scabbing over. The burns cover you entirely, but you pay them no attention, you can only watch the devil. Your breath comes out slow and green, and the devil smiles. The teeth are pointed and yellow, the breath putrid, the tongue forked. And yet in that smile there is some hidden characteristic which draws you in, spinning deeper into oblivion. You move closer-- how close are you? His eyes are bright and black, sparkling. You don't know his intent, but you do not care, either. You look deep into his eyes, puzzling the mystery of his existence. The attraction you feel to him is not natural; not like a man and a women or even like a parent with their child, or friends. It is instead like the need of a housepet to leave its domain before dying; like the unsummoned desire to attack when one is angry. Quick as lightning, his hand is around your throat, with long, thick nails digging into your neck. He laughs a cold, mirthless laugh that stirs your mind into confusion and passion. As everything goes black, you smile.

I know that if I was smart, I would erase the paragraph I just wrote. But it felt incredibly good to write it. There is no way to fully express the depths of insanity. That was, perhaps, a little piece. I tend to think I might be committed if I tried much harder. So, perhaps I am not quite as ordinary as I thought. Perhaps I am ordinary in every outward manner but hold some twisted element within. Perhaps I am simply better at expressing things which everyone thinks than other people. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to hide it thoroughly.

Here, perhaps I redeem myself. Because I want to write about the thought I had on the way home, as I sat looking out the window into the rain. I imagined myself from behind, the picture that would be created. Plain dirty blond hair, drawn back into a low ponytail behind the neck. Chin resting in the palm of my hand as I stared listlessly into the rain. Very ordinary. Somehow a little profound. I think that maybe we underestimate the beauty in a certain kind of ordinary.

Because ordinary doesn't have to mean stereotypical.