I must be the mistress of doom the way I like to imagine disasters. I must be the goddess of gloom the way I like to scribble hurt along the lines of a tiny notebook. The ease with which my pen dances on this page as it leaves trails of sorrow shadowed by the pretence of normality. The ease with which my mind cooks up these words, ideas, dreams and scenarios is scary. The comfort I feel being in this twisted state of being is concerning, yet, the thrill is just as equally intoxicating. There must be an anomaly within me if I thirst for disasters right? There must be a fault line within my brain that I can be able to cook up such images that leave even 'me' feeling nauseous. Sickened from myself that I shake with tremor at how I'm so odd, such a pityful being.
