Monster

"It is clear to me now that greatness has passed me by. Maybe in my younger years it would have been possible to use my sickness for profit, for fame, but now? No, not a chance in hell. Between the bridges burnt born of booze and all the time eroded away like the great ice giants, I’ve got nothing left. I use to think the absence of things was pure genius, the bees knees at the summit of Shangri-La.

Jesus, what a load of crap!

What all the existentialists and would be prophets-for-profit forgot to teach and preach was the doctrine of loss, the tenets of depth, depth without end. They all failed miserably to expound fully about what loss does to a man.

The mind sits in that cage of a head, always potent, idled, more dangerous with every passing day. Loss is the medicine they give to good men; these patients of pain predictably become the mad men of the world, men with guns and hate in their hearts, men who walked away from themselves in favor of a new life.

When everything you've loved has been stripped from you and you’re left with a head full of ghosts, with infant knuckles now awaking, you learn how to take your smile back from those bastards now gone. You glare at everyone, your intention always to inflict fear. For fear is the stone a man must turn to forget his loss. And once loss has been sealed away, hidden from the light of day, we see the rebirth of a man once thought dead. The world finally meets that thing inside that’s been awaiting release all along, the monster.

And fuck, my boy, is it good to be home."