It's almost noon, and I'm not home alone. I'm almost safe.
The weird thing about being freakishly paranoid like me is that you know you're not the only one, but finding others is nearly impossible.
So impossible that even after you've faced the fact that you're mad, insane, bonkers, you start to wonder if maybe you really, truly are the only one. The only one that sees things in the darkness, that hears things in an empty room. The only one who knows.
It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, 'cept the haystack is the size of Planet Earth and the needle just so happens to be invisible. And you know you just have to keep sifting through, searching for something that you can't see. Stopping is like giving up that last little echo of normality in the back of your mind, the voice that pushes you on.
Stopping is suicide.
Suicide is a mortal sin, but I'm starting to see that there are exceptions.
Not yet, though, the fight's just beginning.
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