Sanity (part 1)

A person can be sane.

A person can be insane.

Can a person be unsane? Or asane?

I think so.

Maybe

I could easily kill someone. I know it is not really that hard. Physically. Killing someone is no harder than sneezing, or wiping your bum.

Emotionally is where most people fall down. I'm not sure why. I've met Hunters. And Butchers. I've even eaten the meat that they have shot, cleaned, marinaded and cooked on the BBQ all with in a 24 hour period.

Humans are not really different from animals. If I can understad, and maybe even appreciate the above, maybe I am not the person in the wrong. Maybe.

Desire

I have a lot of desires. I will not apologize for that. Everyone has desires. Yours are no more important or meaningful that mine.

Allow me to be what I consider witty, or whimsical, or perhaps even ironic. Indulge me. Just for a moment. I indulge you your entire life.

My mother once bought me a double Bob Dylan album - Desire and Blood on the Tracks. To this day I have no idea why she did. Or what songs belong on what album. Yet I loved both those albums. They made me want to change the WORLD!

As you have probably noticed, I never did. I had/have the desire, and yet...

Person of Interest

I am curious as to what this term means. Obviously, I know that they are a suspect in a crime, but why is it that the police will not or cannot prosecute them? Especially if they are the only "person of interest" in a given case?

I can understand that sometimes the evidence is a little flimsy, or that correct procedures have not been followed (I have watched a movie or two).

But for a "Person of Interest" to wander around, or even be in gaol (jail to my American friends). It makes no sense. If anything it seems to mock Justice.

Death

My netbook died the other day. Not in a great explosion, or a shower of sparks, rather it just stopped working.

I mention this because I wanted to let you know I have not gone away, nor will I. This is merely a setback.

Animals and machines

I do not hunt. I do not, even, enjoy fishing. In fact, if I were to rely upon fishing for a source of food, I would probably starve to death. Wild animals seem to avoid me. Domesticated animals, seem to love me for some reason. I cannot explain why, they just do.

Angry, nasty dogs will eat food out of my hands, or lick me affectionately. Perhaps they understand that I have no fear for their antics. Perhaps I emit a pheromone that only they can detect.

Cats, for some reason, adore me. Cats will go out of their way to greet me, to be near me, to share their kills with me, as if I should be a proud parent. I am not. I do not understand why I should delight in a still warm creature laying dead or dying by someone else's hands at my bed, door, or wherever. The blood, entrails, feathers and the like I find messy. Disgusting.

I hate Biology. I always have. I have always held a firm belief that the stuff that happens inside of a body ought to remain there. I hate needles. I nearly faint at the sight of my own blood. I could not even tell you my blood type. Even as I type this I feel a little light headed.

To me the body is like a car, or a machine. It performs a purpose. It is clean and clinical, and when it can no longer serve that purpose it is discarded like a husk, a shell, and another replaces it. Or not. It depends on the requirements of the job, I suppose. Perhaps I need to think about this more.

Lack of empathy

My lack of empathy can sometimes be an advantage. I do not fall for the spiels that salesmen present me with. Or that door-to-door people like to use. Their tactics are wasted on me. They are trained to keep talking at you, to build familiarity, until you crack and buy whatever they are peddling. They could be selling oxygen, and I would not buy it. I can see too much of me within them. I think they can see it too, to some degree.

Small children cannot blackmail me with their emotional games. I can withstand crying, tantrums, pleas, begging, and the myriad of other games that children like to attempt. Parents choose not to leave their kids with me, and for that I am rather relieved. It is probably in the best interest of the child to remain as far aware from me as possible. I am not a responsible adult as far as that is concerned I can sleep soundly at night knowing someone else is worrying about these things.

Except that is a lie. I do not sleep soundly. I lie awake at night, working out solutions to mathematical problems that no one else would think about. Or else I fall into terrible nightmares to the point where I wake up either screaming, or I find myself with a hurt wrist or fist from having punched the wall next to my bed in some kind of slumbering rage. Perhaps it is best that I do not remember those dreams. Or maybe I need to hunt them down like a wounded animal, dissect them, and find out what they really mean.