I told the truth about my sickness. Now I wish I had lied.

A long while back, I remember writing a short piece of literature about the Bart subway which travels all throughout the Bay Area of California. It asked simple questions about your choices on a daily basis. What do you to do other people? What could you do to other people? Would you do something to someone else if you knew it would make their day, even if it was out of the ordinary? I remember I made many copies of this story, asking all these questions appearing so simple, yet obviously deeply complex to the keen eye. I took all those copies and placed them in a pile where people could pick them up, if they wanted. If they wanted to read something I wrote. If they wanted insight on how to live a better life, or what I imagined would lead to a better life.

I tried to look for this narrative but I couldn't find it. It's long gone. It wasn't very long, so maybe one day I'll try and recreate it.

Anyways, I remember thinking, day dreaming, that maybe someone would pick this short narrative up and decide that maybe there was something more meaningful to this existence than just going through the motions. Than just following the sheep. Maybe I could wake up people, I thought. That's all I really wanted. Even if it was just for a second, for just one thought of their day. Maybe I could get them to open their eyes and see the world as I see it, as it truly should be seen. I remember imagining what would need to be said for that to happen.

Then - poof - it hit me. Why do I need to change these people? Do I really want them to be like me? All I do is add confusion to their lives, if anything. I make them think things their minds weren't meant to conceive. So, I came to the conclusion that, no, I don't want anyone else like me. I don't want to wake these people up. Is it selfish to think like this, I wonder. To want people to understand what I say, to understand where I am coming from. To see more than needs to be seen, in any situation. To want them to be able to understand this, yes, that would be a good thing. But I would not want them to do it all the time, no, that would be a bad thing. Where would it leave me? What good would I be? This is my gift, this is my curse. This is my plague, this is my mind.

Occasionally my mind drifts off of this fact and I start talking to people again. I try and talk to them, making poor attempts at knocking down their mind's walls and letting me inside. Let it be understood, I want none of this.

If it leaves me in a life of solitude, then let it be. I know there is someone out there who understands what I think. What I feel, believe, understand. There is no point in trying to wake these people up around me. I need only one person in my life. I don't know when I'll find that person, though. If I ever will. I thought I have in the past, and maybe that's still the truth. But for now, I'm left alone again.