The journey to becoming crazy is both long and very lonely.

Once or twice I've tried to explain it. I gathered all of my courage and threw my inhibitions away. To separate yourself from normalcy is a terrifying thing, it takes a lot of energy. What hurts the most is when the person you explain this to, that you trust enough to let into that horrible weak and insecure part of yourself, brushes you off. "You're not crazy," they say. Not that I want you to tell me I'm crazy. But I don't want you to tell me how unimportant this is when it's killing me from the inside out.

It's getting worse.

Everything I look at... every snapshot of every moment of every day. I can't get rid of them, and my head is getting too full. They settle and develop. The man eating pie at the diner. The way the cars go up and down the road. The drops of rain in the puddle next to your car. The way the leaves blow in the wind. It's all I think about.

I can't sleep. I think about them. I can't concentrate, I think about them. They're all I see and hear and think about. I can't concentrate in a room with sound because I hear all of the sounds and I can't separate them. Every single fucking sound.

And there's colors. And lights. The things I see when I hear music.

I wasn't always like this. It's been getting worse, especially recently.

I don't socialize anymore. I get agitated and anxious. I'd rather shut myself away in my room. I hate everyone that I don't already know, I'm not open to change. Because I would rather sit in my room and let them develop. On top of that I've become paranoid. That all of you are talking about me and criticizing me because you know that I'm crazy or creepy or whatever it is that you think I am.

And one day I'm afraid that I'll be lost to them completely. I'll sit and just be listening to them, letting them develop in my head. They're taking over my mind. Only the really pushy ones ever escape.

I try so hard. I try to write them down but I can't. I want to let them out, set them free. But I'm not good enough. I try, but I'm not good enough. You say, 'no one is,' but that's not an option. I am just an interpreter, but I'm not good enough. They need me to tell the world and I can't do it. No one will ever see them like I do because I'm not good enough.

I want to be normal. I don't want this life anymore. I want it to stop. I don't want to hear them or see them or experience them. I don't want the colors or the lights or the stories or the depression. I want to be normal. I want to be good at math or science. I want to be able to have potential in my future. I want to know that there's a job out there that I can have. But there isn't.

I asked if all writers are crazy, because maybe it's being crazy that makes you a writer. Because they come and find you. THey want you to interpret for them. They want to get out of the air and out of their jails and into the world. They want you to interpret, so they find you and they become your parasites. And then you become a writer, because you're the crazy person who heard them.

I don't want this life anymore. I wish I could give it up, but they're winning. I'm weak and fatigued and I'm going crazy because they're winning. I don't think I can do it anymore. The anxiety and the depression and the paranoia. It's ruling my life. I'm scared.

Someone help me.

I wanted to be a writer, that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.