"Loneliness means that you never have anybody there for you." - Michael Lagace


I'm sure nobody would want to take credit for these writings, but nonetheless, they are all copyrighted by Michael Lagace. Ne pas stealez.

Please note that these are stories moreso than they are anything diary-like.



01/04/01: A somewhat vacation...

You are now in my head. You hear only what I hear, you see only what I see, you feel only what I feel. But you are not my visitor, you are my prisoner.

Let me bring you to Hell. My Hell, not yours. We see only darkness. Not blackness, mind you, but darkness what you would see if the black went away. All the black just disappeared and never returned. With this lack of blackness, we have only solitude. I scream and cannot hear even an echo. There is no boundary to this Hell, I could keep running in the same direction for eons and maybe, if I were fortunate enough, I could pass by the same spot. (Not that one could leave any trace of one's history behind in order to be certain it was the same spot.)

Hell is beautiful, don't you think? Nobody, nothing, nowhere. There are no living souls in any direction that can be communicated with for infinite years. No distractions, no shattered dreams, only beautiful, wonderful loneliness.

For some reason Hell is not anywhere far away. It is right here, in my head, every night and every day. It resonates its beautiful emptiness to me, and I am thrilled by it. A constant network of nothing, not even thought.

Human touch is empty and without feeling. One can never touch me, not in the way that I can feel it. Not in the way that I would want their touch to affect me. The human voice is cold and filled with sadness, and I choose to let it pass through me like it were nothing more than wind through a hollow oak. The human heart is much too deluded with sorrow that I simply cannot tolerate it. The heart is crass, juvenile, and random, and I simply cannot identify with its illogical behaviours. The mind, the thoughts, and the ideas repulse me.

This Hell is beautiful. It is perfect, absolutely flawless, and I take great pride in it. I can lay in Hell and not be threatened by anything. Not people, not their touch, not their ideas, and certainly not their hearts, can threaten me in Hell.

Welcome to Hell. Population: me.



01/03/01: We could perhaps play soccer?

"If you're up to it, Satan, we could play soccer. I'm not much into it myself, but I seem to understand the game as well as the next guy. It doesn't look like a difficult game to play, I wouldn't think. Kick, kick, kick. That's all.

"Unless, I suppose, we played with my head. How would I know where to kick? How would I know if you were cheating, as you usually do? You would have to let me keep my eyes, Satan. Because I don't trust you.

"If I were to keep my ears, Satan, then I could hear the whistle whenever it was blown. Without my ears the game would keep going forever without a winner, and I wouldn't like that. So you'll have to let me keep my ears.

"And my mouth, please. It would be nice if I could keep that, too, because how would I answer questions?

"I suppose you're right, Satan. Let us play soccer, then."



01/01/01: I crumble into madness...

Am I sane?

I don't know.

I'm sitting here, right now, at 11:44 PM, questioning my very sanity. Honestly.

I've never felt this way before... ever. I'm in front of my computer, thinking or not, starting to believe that maybe I am not of a sound mind.

I used to think that I was normal - an average guy like every other average nobody on this planet. Maybe I'm not. Maybe there is no average. I'm definately insane then.

But not by just anybody's definition of insane, oh no. That would be too easy. Why use the door when the window is already open? I have to be insane in my own way. But we all are, I suppose, and perhaps that's our humanity. What makes homosapiens superior to other Earth life. Or we're inferior. We could very well be the lowest form of life on the planet. If it exists.

If you look at your world in different ways, start to question simple things, everything becomes complex. Difficult to understand. Not for me, however, because that would be too easy. Everything becomes less and less dynamic; much more simple.

It's as though this world is a stage... everything seems so fake to me right now. As if I were Truman Burbank and everything is around me. Sure I can't see cameras, but how do I know they're not there? Are they watching me right now? They could be. Or I could be watching you.

Am I insane?

I don't know.

Take other films, other people's own ideas, like Dark City. Maybe that's how the world is set up. Maybe we're in a giant Matrix.

But that doesn't make me any less sane now, does it.

I don't like being alone in the same way as I don't like loneliness. Being alone is fantastic if one is prepared for it... it allows you get some thoughts thought. Loneliness, however, is much much worse. Loneliness means that when you stop being alone, you have nobody there for you. I have nobody there for me anymore. I have sensed this for a while, it's all a matter of time, I'm sure. I can hear my own madness, sadness, and deterioration infesting inside - I no longer have the willpower to leave my home. Every time I leave I'm always one step closer to loneliness, so perhaps I should hide. Fly away to some uncharted desert land and hide. Only to evade loneliness, you see. Because human association causes loneliness, not the lack of human association. And we can never assume otherwise.

I used to like being alone all the time. I enjoyed the solitude. Now it frightens me. It brings me to some scary realizations, like how come I can't control my thoughts? Can anybody see me? Worse yet...

... how much longer will I be alone like this?

Am I sane?

How could I tell, if I were? If one were truly sane, would they think they were sane, or is that the thoughts of somebody who is insane?

Everybody thinks they can be a poet. And anybody can be. But nobody can be a famous poet any more. Nobody cares about poetry... there's so many other avenues nowadays that nobody really cares about reading somebody else's thoughts. Just like this. If you got this far, maybe you're insane.

Maybe I drove you there.

Maybe I won't let you back.

I still don't know, nor am I anywhere near knowing. But I don't want to know. Nor do I want to be sane.