Written in the perspective of a fictional boy.

16 September

~~~~~

There's nothing wrong with being afraid of hands,

as long as you thoroughly convince yourself that you're sane.

And that's what I've been doing for a year,

jamming my fingers into my ears to block out the alternate conclusions of numerous psychologists, despite how credible they may be,

because my mind has always belonged to me,

hovering over a familiar terrain that never changes,

and if I allow doctors inside, renovations will warp the setting in which I confide

and ultimately cause my body to decay.

So I haven't been to a psychologist in seven months, and my mother is absolutely terrified of me.

But the folks I've been hanging around lately will preach that holding an authority over people based on their fear of you is the best possible position you could twist yourself into,

and one by one

more people are finding themselves a statistic to it.

There was a time when I would've abhorred this sort of behavior,

but that time is long gone.

Everyone can agree that they've changed drastically since they were a child,

and although I wasn't a child when I made the switch from joyous to cynical,

the sentiment is still there.

Now,

I frankly don't care about what I've done and what I will do.

My only goal is to avoid those hands.