The Two Faces of Paranoia

A plot twist. An undefined terror which defines my own terror, my own deep-rooted fear. That I am not alone in this is a slight relief. That I don’t know what to do with that is not.

A relief which relieves nothing? How ironic!

I’m so tense, I could almost destroy myself. Where do I go from here? What do I with that? One can only reassure themselves so much. Sooner or later, the horrors of my mind will be released. They demand it.

That my fear is based off of something so inconsequential is no surprise—some of our worst fears have their basis in nothing. Some would laugh. Others would be delighted to hear such an odd thought.

Is this paranoia? Yes, but then maybe not. I could go on explaining what this fear is, what it is and isn’t, and everything else in-between.

A writer always has voices in their heads. These are their thoughts, their ideas, their creations. As they grow they find their own voice and it is that voice in which they speak to us—whether it be in dreams, or our waking life. Some are louder than others, more charming, more profound.

They take on a life of their own, sometimes against our better judgment. It is that life I am terrified of. A part of me is afraid that somewhere out in the unknown, that character may actually exist. Have you ever wondered why some seem to come to you? I have often wondered why; what if it is truly the character that chooses the author? What if, by some small circumstance, you have really been seeing the life of someone from another plane of existence, another universe?

Is that even possible? Yes, but then maybe not. I could go on with my humming and hawing, the ifs, the ands, the buts—and it would do me little good.

A writer always has voices in their heads. These are their thoughts, their, ideas, their creations. As these ideas grow they seem to find their own voice and it is that voice in which they speak to them—whether it be in dreams, or their waking life. Some are louder than others, more charming, more profound.

They take on a life of their own, sometimes against their better judgement. It is that life which consumes them, eating away at their sanity with whispered half-truths. They don’t know it, save for that small part of them; it is terrified of that life, whatever it may be. A part of them is afraid that somewhere out in the unknown, that character actually exists. Some have often wondered why some characters seem to come to them. We have all wondered why; was it truly the character that chose the author, or was it the author who latched on to the idea of that character? And they think, that by some small circumstance, they have really been seeing the life of someone from another plane of existence, another universe. More and more the thought eats away at them. Further and further they descend down into madness. Sometimes they are not even aware. They are blind. We shake our heads at them, the Poes and Van Goghs, and still we wonder: what if, by some small circumstance, they really have been seeing the life of someone from another plane of existence, another universe?

Is that insanity? Yes, but then maybe not. The universe is more vast than we know, and there are many things that our small minds were not made to comprehend. Perhaps these people have seen something. I could go on with my humming and hawing, the ifs, the ands, the buts—and it would do me little good.

Milagro (my inspiration)

One thought on “The Two Faces of Paranoia

Leave a Reply