I remember how I looked into his cold dead & wanted to find a way to breathe in genuine life back into him. And how that’s connected to me wanting to find a cure for schizophrenia because if I could find a cure for that, I could surely, find a cure for psychopathy. Sometimes I think I can be president of the United States if I could find a cure for evil because then I’d feel invincible again, like myself. The part he took away.
I stared into the eye of an ant hill as I thought about all this & it made me think of the identifying qualities of the worker ants. Clocking into an enslaved life, around the clock forever for a queen ant, the president, because she willed herself to grow wings.
I want to fly someday.
Makes me feel more desolate and alone than a thousand storming winds emptying into an echoed hallway of open doors. I want people to love me and work for me the same way I want to work on the cure. I am the worker ant who wanted the cure so much I wanted to become him. But I am the worker ant, and he the queen. I think Ill grow feathers, instead.
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