• Whether or not the reader processes this, it is not my concern. My words are only the words of a person, or an individual, who has lost his sense of identity. Knowing what made me the person that I was, what I had done, what I had wanted to do, and whom I wanted to do it with is now irrelevant.

    Thinking on the past, there was always room for improvement, but I was okay with the way everything was, and with everything I had. When I had her, and she had me, the sun never set on me. It was like living in the perpetual warmth and embrace of someone who genuinely cared. And even if she didn't really care, I perceived that she did, which was the first I had ever seen in someone I held so close.

    Thinking on the past, I should've said different things at different times, but once more, I was okay with the way everything was, and everything she could give me. When I had her, not a day passed that I didn't thank God in the heavens above for the life given me. The divine gift to which man is entrusted to hold sacred, I violated by not making the most of the time given me.

    Thinking of the past, I should have seen who and what I was, and know that it wouldn't be enough. Who am I to stay the same when life is about movement? What I should have given her while I did indeed have her; While I could be moved to feel by her, and by the heart, or brain, or wherever the feeling of love is stored. It's meaningless now, only words on a page. And perhaps upon seeing this, the reader will think, "Yes, I have someone. I love someone. And I need this person." That is my hope. But I also know that there is a chance this may never be seen. And it, like me, will fade into it's self-induced oblivion.

    Thinking back on that darkness specifically, thinking back to whatever possessed me, thinking back to whatever demon I be labeled; I remember seeing it for myself. The evil I was capable of. I was disgusted, I hated myself, all that was me, and all that had ever been me. All of the emotion reached it's peak when I came to the conclusion that if I didn't like what I saw, then I should change it.

    That was it, "Become someone else." That was the Answer I had reached.

    On the opposing side of the looking glass, I wonder if it was some grand mistake of mine, or perhaps a punishment implemented by powers larger than myself, but now I find myself incomplete. I had become someone else, but who? what?

    Nothing, and No one. I was a beast, but that was an identity, a thought, an idea, something more concrete than a wandering soul searching for a name, a label, something to tie myself to my own humanity. Something that made me more than just a combination of proteins, lipids, and hemoglobin with sentience.

    So here I am, a Soul without a true name, a rebel without a cause, a cop without a conscience. But perhaps I am finally something.

    Yes, I am; I have to be.

    I am the demon without definition, without evil, without will for malicious deed.

    I am all that remains.