I, or something resembling myself, was sitting in a chair in the family room emotionlessly rocking back and forth. My eyes felt black and empty, and on my head I could feel the antennas letting a higher power read my thoughts, or perhaps it was a tinfoil hat I created in a futile attempt to prevent it.
My family was in the surrounding kitchen. I turned to my mom and said in what I assume was my voice "Honey, where are the fucking knives?" Despite my profanity, I felt no emotion in my tone whatsoever. My mom refused to answer as the rest of my family just stared at me.
I got up from my chair to walk to the kitchen. I needed a knife. I don't know why, but I had to hold one. Would I slice some food? Would I stab and kill someone? Would I cut myself to relieve myself of some sort of pain? I did not know, but the knives called to me. My parents yelled and screamed at me to stop, trying to get me to stay in my chair. I saw them rush to the phone calling 911. As they were calling 911, I grabbed a knife and felt it in my hand.
As I focused on the knife, I wondered about its relation to me and how it changes when I use it and vice versa. I wondered what I could do with the knife. I stared around the room wondering how everything felt, from the people to the inanimate objects. Eventually, medics arrived.
"Have you come for me?" I asked them.
"You're not safe," they told me.
"If I am not safe, then what is trying to hurt me?"
"You."
"What a surprise," I said as they placed me in a straightjacket and put a muzzle on me, "Are you going to take me somewhere with a bed and food? Even a hard copy with no blanket and stale white bread would be better than rotting on the street cold and hungry, and judging by your conflicting facial expressions and inner emotions, I have no reason to doubt that the bare minimum is all I'll receive."
"Yes," they said, "You won't have to worry about anything anymore. All you'll have to do is think."/p>
"But I hate thinking. It is forbidden for me to think. I always make mistakes in my day to day life, and since these mistakes are a product of my thoughts, wouldn't I be safer if I couldn't think?"
They did not respond. They simply took me away as I watched my parents cry. I did not intend to hurt anyone, neither my parents nor myself. For the want of feeling the essence of a knife in my hand, I find myself gone and doomed to do nothing but think. I have now become the Satan of my own personal Hell where my thoughts serve no purpose but to act as noise in a world where the sane and orderly driven see me as a mistake. Perhaps deep down, I always had a desire to be here. Ever since I was a child I used knives to cut my food. Perhaps it was my soul screaming for help telling me that even eating my food is dangerous for me and that I must be taken away.
Even though I am the maker of my own thoughts, do I truly understand them? The people who took me here gave me the tools to create; to write and draw. And yet, despite giving these ideas life, do I have a reason for bringing them out in the open in the first place? They always say they're impressed by what I make and that I'm talented, but when they leave I imagine they burn all I make and reject and laugh at it. For this reason, I wish to lose the ability to think. By doing so, I may not be the brightest, but at least, I hope to be happy. If, that is, one can define this solitude and emptiness as "happiness."