A blasphemer of true self.
An intellectual infidel
A heretic against my own heart.
My crime? Defiance of the laws loosely transcribed by an institution of one.
Or, in other words, I stopped being true to myself.
That self, my friends, is A. M. Schultz: student, writer, arm-chair philosopher, and existential nomad. About fourteen months ago, I made what, at the time, seemed like a fairly logical, sequential decision in my life’s journey: I was going to commit to the writer’s life.
My commitment lasted about four days. What followed was an adulterated proliferation of confusion, arbitrary metrics, and deafening, indecipherable background noise. An orgy of chaos attended by others who, like I, had become nothing more than professional noise makers. We prayed to false gods and vipers in the streets, knelt at an altar of shame, and spoke nothing of the Fall to one another.
I wore a mask and adopted a facade, functioning under the guise of an avatar more palatable to the masses than the curious, feeble face it covered. My body lied, but my soul rebelled. Quietly, at first. All successful rebellions begin quietly. In this instance, an inauthentic existence was to be overthrown, and a burden was to be shed. Writing, my once and often greatest pleasure, had become something foreign and intolerable.
A cross I was no longer willing to bear.
In the span of a year, I was separated from my innocence — and perhaps a true writer should know very little of innocence. The life I knew, a life of comfort, is now a memory, compartmentalized alongside Matchbox cars and stories of long-dead relatives that I will never hear again.
The pessimist may say I squandered my opportunity to travel down the nicely paved road towards the American Dream, and for nothing, but I disagree.
I am not a fatalist, but now, I am experienced.
May that period of myself remain dead. Lifeless. Castrated and charred. In the shallowest of graves, so that future generations may bear witness to the atrocities man is willing to commit against himself.
May the blasphemer that lies dormant in my abdomen join the number, too, and take notice of that virgin corpse. Let him smile, then weep, for he helped slay the weak. The innocent.
And let him remember this: with the death of innocence comes the death of humility, and with the death of humility comes the birth of pride.
And pride suffers no sympathy for the heretic.