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In the beginning there was me. Standing alone naked and afraid, me. I could not bear the darkness or the light, the sun or the moon, the heat or the cold, the sky, the ocean, the others or myself. I felt as if I was inside of some cosmic blender of everything I hate. I was consumed by this this hate and it destroyed everything around me. My friends, my home, my family... my life. This hatred consumed them and it set off a chain reaction sweeping through the world and finding its way back to me. I was placed right into the middle of it all without any choice and it tore into me making me believe that is all that I was.

All I ever wanted was to get it out of me, to escape it all. I dreamed of better worlds and thrived for a while, sustaining myself on the belief that it would get better. I was adhered to the idea that the sickness would pass. Then I realized the sickness was me, that it would always be me and that I could never escape it.

Then as sharply as a panicked rapping on the door it hit me. I got out of my bed and answered the door and I was swept away to a new set of ideals. I was happy for a while believing that things were better. I thought I mattered, that things weren't as bad as I once was convinced.

But eventually the sickness found me. It came back more powerful than ever. Maybe it was there the whole time and I was just tormenting myself in a more creative way than ever before. Why? Because I deserved it, I deserved it for thinking that I was someone. History repeated itself and in the end I was alone. I was alone and so are you. Forever alone, lost and afraid.

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