I Believed

I believed in love.

I believe in truth.

I believe in equality.

I believe in hope.

I believe in knowledge.

I believe in a light at the end of a tunnel.

I believe in a reward.

I believe in happiness.

 

Then….

Then, I grew up.

I suffered. I cried.

I wept.

I grew.

I smiled again.

I tried, I tried–

I tried to believe

In love, in anything.

In anything at all,

But the pain

Of knowing

I was alone,

When I had believed

To be loved

Hurt more

Than anything else.

 

I believed

In the goodness

Of mankind.

Now, as I grow,

All I am left

To believe in

Is myself.

 

I believe

In myself.

~~In the Beginning….~~

In the beginning….In the beginning, what was there?

In the beginning, there was peace.There was quiet, loneliness, love, heartache, rock music, and sometimes depression. I grew up lonely–I had one main friend, and he was a selective mute. Seeing as I had a rather extensive speech impediment (I had difficulty pronouncing: ‘S’, ‘th’, ‘l’, and ‘r’ as well as a few others) he and I weren’t the most talkative pair. He barely spoke to anyone but me, and to me, he would rarely speak an actual sentence. Needless to say, he got bullied a lot–and I got bullied a lot for defending him.

Most of my childhood memories involve being bullied, really. Still, I have to say there were good memories, too–I travelled the world, wrote a 121 page novel (by hand!) at the age of eleven, threw rockin’ parties that hosted anywhere from thirty people to over a hundred (my family’s awesome), and I read a huge amount of books.

I still read a huge amount, by the way–fantasy, romance, science-fiction, horror, manga of many different genres, webcomics, and anything that makes me think. I also read a bit of non-fiction, too–mainly stuff that relates to things I’m writing about, though.

I’ve always been a writer. At the very least, I’ve always been telling stories. Always, always been telling stories. Ever since I learned to talk, I could tell stories that stretched on for hours–and I’ve held onto that ability, even though now it’s transitioned to being able to type at ninety-words-a-minute and think even faster.

So, that explains the ‘writer’ part of the ‘Half-Mad Writer’ name. What about the ‘Half-Mad’ part?

I’ve always been just a bit off. Well, I guess you could call me: Eccentric, weird, unique, odd, crazy, strange, disturbing, or just plain silly. I don’t enjoy doing what other people do, and find myself most at home with a book and Jasmine Tea. I like anime, but I’m not an otaku. I like video games, but I’m not a gamer. I don’t really categorize easily.

Oh, yes. I also believe in there being something supernatural. There has to be more to this world than what we see and feel.

I’ve also known, for the longest time, that I lost my mind. That’s the only way to explain the emptiness in my chest, the screaming voices in my skull, or the maelstrom of thoughts that escape onto pages upon pages of innocent-white paper. I have issues trusting people, trusting myself, and believing that there IS something good coming. I lost hope in the world a long time ago–about the same time that I decided it isn’t worth caring about what other people think of me.

 

So, if you want to know what to expect from me….

Just expect half-mad words from a broken girl. Poetry, prose, stories, novels–everything, and nothing. Insanity and love, all mixed together with a pinch of joy and dash of sorrow.

 

With love, the Half-Mad Writer