When the ball point meets the page and the miniscule dot of ink is consumed by it, I relax. Mind at ease. Suppressed voices rise to meet the madman with the pen. Clearer than ever. The words they speak bleed onto the page like an anemic cutter committing suicide. It’s all out. Ideas flow in red iron streams. Rivers of imaginations and critical thought.

My mind wanders too often for every day words to describe the experience.

A psychopath’s mind is a jumbled mess of cold rationality and brutal, numb disconnects. Raw numeric sequences with zero imagery. A void packed with information for the sixth sense. The one of thought. A sense impossible to explain using verbal language. A psychedelic trip which has to be experienced to be understood.

When the paper and pen work together magic happens. Genius at their job. They manage to decipher anything they’re dealt. The right words become clear. They are fit into the five basic senses. Seen and touched.

Although less of a broken mess, still a broken mess. Those unrelated might never understand what each word means or stands for. But all that’s really important is for my corrupt eyes to get the ideas they convey.

Once the echo has been removed from the walls of my mind and converted to words it’s easy to face them.

Part of me is scared. A coward. Afraid of what these twisted thoughts might mean. I control their world on paper, though. I am the Alpha and Omega of the thoughts that lands before me.

And I’m all powerful. Gifted the ability to read and comprehend versions of me that no longer exist. Abusing the telepathic nature of written words. Revisiting thoughts had years in the past as they were had.

An obsession with time travel and change.
And who I was.
And who I wasn’t.
And who I am.
And who I’m not.
And who I’ll be.
And who I won’t.

An obsession with personality. One with little emotional capacity. But through this method, and these techniques, this little bit of feeling is amplified and can be explored.

And madman’s madness can be altered. And improved on.
And maybe one day he’ll feel like a person.
And maybe one day he’ll feel relatable.
And maybe one day he won’t be alone.

And streams of iron will no longer linger behind illusive thoughts.