Inside Job

I think most people try and find a reason behind a killers motivations, so they can humanize him or her and feel safer once the mystery is solved.

I'm here to put all that to bed.

While some are motivated by the sins of their fathers and mothers, I am truly inspired by the madness of my own making.

Ever since I was a child I found these dark thoughts particularly haunting.

I was never struck as a child.

My parents showed me boundless love.

It was never a conscious act to rebel or a boredom that comes from having a perfect life.

I had my struggles same as everyone else.

I first noticed it when I was in Kindergarten.

You might say kids will be kids, but I believe we are fully aware of the actions we project, and some of these personality traits come from our home environment.

While I was playing games with some of the other boys, one of them asked me why my eyes were so big?

The rest of the kids laughed and began to play.

From that instance a fire was ignited and I felt blackness oozing through my veins.

I had learned from school and home that one should never respond to such evil, but I couldn't stop thinking about hurting that child.

This went on the rest of the year.

I had learned to smile and behave, but couldn't forget what that child had done.

Later in life this child had developed asthma and had a violent attack on the playground.

I was the first one aware of his outbreak.

I made sure he suffered a while before notifying the teacher.

By then, it had been too late to save him.

After his death I had hoped to be affected by it, but life resumed per usual.

I learned to lose myself in writing.

When something terrible would happen in my life, I suppressed the darkness with words.

My parents hadn't taken an active interest in my creative talent, only the class mandatory projects.

Those were never as raw as the journal entries.

I made sure to keep these private and hidden from the world.

They say the older you are, the wiser.

I felt with each year, the older, the more cynical.

My family was a devote Christian family who believed in an after life.

These beliefs were passed along to my brother and I, until we single handedly realized how cruel and cold the world was.

Neither of us had carried our traditional beliefs with us when we moved out from our childhood home.

It was the first time either had stepped out of the religious bubble and seen the world for the very first time.

I had become afraid of dying, thus had begun to live.

I now firmly believed in no life after death, but possible re-incarnation or a repeat of life with no knowledge of the previous life until death.

Earth had become an overpopulated planet plagued with people making up for the mistakes they had made previously.

These thoughts diluted my writing.

I had become another insect trying to survive a hostile rat race.

My self awareness had shifted from happiness with ones self to proving your happier than others.

Somewhat of a contemporary realness.

This is when the killing began again.

I do not make it my personal mission to rid myself of the human race, nor personally get off on violence.

I found the inconsideration of others should be dealt with intelligently.

I began to meddle with forces that were out of my hands.

The darkness took over.

Intelligently, I would confront any issues, when they arose, should they be an intelligent reaction to someone screaming in your face.

Ultimately, that person was way to jacked to speak reasonably and was disposed of.

Like my inner youth, I never forgot those conflicts.

Some have stewed for years, until the perfect moment arose to end life.

Don't get me wrong, the events were very tragic and traumatic, but ultimately necessary for the good of man kind.

I don't particularly care for violence.

Nor do I condone it.

I have a strong love for animals and take animal abuse very personal.

I treat them, or any other subjects the same I would humans.

I rationally try and reason the issue, but should they disobey and react negatively, they are removed.

Call me psychologically damaged, a monster or a killer, and maybe I am, but the one thing this world is lacking is compassion.

I firmly believe that 95% of humanity feels the same ways I do, but that 5% prevents the world from becoming vigilantes.

We should not treat the darkness with pills or extreme violence, but try and reason with the internal struggle.

The devils hands are never idle.

There is some truth to this.