Greed.

I think you may call me a masochist.

To indulge in pain: it must be a curious thing. What a pique to simply question why.

Truly, to answer you, I do not know.

But there is just something so pleasant about the stench of a tragedy - the growing ill that creeps through your nostrils, the pungent air that fills your lungs, the gagging sensation that taunts your throat with its almost ivy-like poison.

The little things are always better exaggerated.

Name me insane, if you please, I do not mind - in fact, you may perhaps be quite true. Insane it is, the thought to expand the realms of reality with the strategy of a long worded poem.

Aren't we rash, disgraceful things, us writers are?

How indignant to spill the language of a simple stutter with colors we bothered not to mingle; How bold the canvas becomes, with its reds, and blues, and yellows - how they do not shadow, nor do not fade, but merely blind you with horrible vivaciousness.

Sometimes even I stun myself.

When I am slouched over an unfinished paragraph, my fingers irking to dance away with the words of a galaxy I have not yet even met, the air purposes to still me with a pause, holds my breath for a moment that passes so quick, I fail to count the seconds, then puzzles my eyes around the room.

Here, in utter honesty, I often grow uncertain - wary, almost - of whether my story presents to you either a novel of fact or fiction. Though you may find me boasting a slaughtered heart, laced beneath my essays - I truly do not know.

You see, to indulge in pain is a curious thing

Curious, but indeed a habit so keen to my kind.

Words that stand proud with agony and distress are what we consider the better. We plant our sorrows the same way the farmers plant their lives within the soil of their homes.

It is the growth of gold we can toy our knuckles with, inside our gaping pockets; it is the shingles that shelter our heads from the drizzles - it is what makes us.

But alas, as do all things favorable: it is also the coming to a doom we only create.

It is an evil - a shadow man of whom I met as a child. To he, I surrendered the furthest musings of my mind to.

Yes. Name me insane, but it is the slow death that tastes as sweet as honey - and I savor every golden tear that coats my cracking lips; licking my tongue almost erotically, so that I do not lose even the slightest of it away, in the dripping faucet of reality's limbo.