An Interesting Question…

I’m beginning to wonder whether I can write anything remotely happy and thus appealing to people anymore. I’ve been staring at the screen for the past 15 minutes pumping dance megamixes through my head trying to at least figure out what I can put down that isn’t of my usual melancholic noir.

Right…and so far I’m drawing a complete blank.

Alright, so I’m not the most fun going person to be with. Most of the time I’m lost in my own world in order to block out the bad things running around in my head. When I’m not doing that, I’m always down to business taking care of things that constantly backlog into my life. The only things in my life that I can consider fun is when it mixes in with work when I’m at the lab doing…God-like things.

I highly doubt that’s party person quality.

When you also stop and consider my choices of role models throughout the course of my life, it has to dawn to you that my choices of lifestyle is definitely completely different from the mainstream social choices of entertainment. I don’t think they would ever show Gil Grissom at a rave party unless there is a dead body there to begin with.

Plus I seriously cannot imagine Hannibal Lector chilling at a blog meeting unless we were the main course.

I suppose maybe the things that keep me down all the time is the fact as a social creature, you can’t expect to connect with the general masses of people and be true to yourself at the same time when you’re one of those people who have a completely different sense of living altogether. As much as I want to connect with someone out there, the gap is painfully large for me to relate to anyone else as much as I try on my own power.

Aside from my understanding of that dark world beyond the picket fence, people expect the same kinds of bonds that they are used to. Bonds I unfortunately never grew up with as a kid. It was a whole different world growing up alone. It was my world and no one elses.

Problem found.

I guess it would have been so much easier if I had remained a sociopath all my life, not caring any less about my desires to connect with society but to just concentrate on accomplishing whatever goals I set to myself. Being that island far from humanity until I’m left with just a shadow of what it means to be human.

It would definitely be easier.

But that’s just wishful thinking.

I care for a lot of things now, for other people and for my own unattainable desires alike. That’s what matters. It shouldn’t matter that it eats and burns me up as I get to the job. It just matters that I deal with whoever I am and whatever reality that live in at the same time without completely loosing it altogether.

Unless I already lost it somewhere already.

Hmmm…crap…looks like I have to file this under Melancholic again.

Oh wait…it’s not as dark as I usually write. Oh, we’ll just stuff this under General and be done with it.

Interesting…maybe I should listen to that megamix a whole lot more.

Maybe Gil Grissom does go to rave parties after all.

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