This is something I wrote for a rather insane V:tM
character of mine. In the story, the character has the following passages
scrawled on the walls of his apartment at various angles, in various combinations of ink, (his own) blood, and sword-mark.
"We are all so pitiful. Every last one of us. We think that we know the world, that we have it mastered, that we're in control. When really, our fears own us. Our doubts own us. Our sorrows and missed opportunities, our misfortunes and our mistakes. They own us, to the bitter end. We walk around like we're all okay, when really, every ounce of humanity in us screams for mercy, for compassion, for understanding. Pitiful creatures, us humans. And yes, we are human. Like it or not, we can never escape that fact, no matter how far we may run from it. We carry in each of us the tattered remnants of the lives we never had. Oh, so long ago.."
"I knew a man once, who could smile like you wouldn't believe, but every night he would cry himself to sleep. Why do you think that is? My friend made a terrible mistake, you see. He chose to feel. You can't pick and choose these things, you know. If you want to have even one emotion, you must accept them all. And that is where they get you. They rope you in with the promise of happy thoughts and candy gumdrops, and then when no one is looking, you begin to hear the whispers."
"They say so many things. One tells of the time I spilled a bottle of those little soap-bubbles that kids play with, and my father beat me for it. I was maybe three at the time. He thought he was teaching me to be more careful. Another tells of the time that I tried to stand next to her in line. She told me to get away from her, before she went to the back of the line. Maybe eight at the time. Another tells me I grew up alone. It has no age to give me."
"There's something a little silly about all this, this game we play. This charade, this farce, this pathetic masquerade. We put on a strong face, when we're all so hollow inside. No, that's not quite right. The whispers aren't the only voices. There are the glimmers too. That time when I was seven, and I went on the haunted hayride with my parents and our neighbors. Their little girl had cooties, but that was okay. I wonder what ever happened to her. And then there was that time when I was thirteen, and I put together a group of crime-fighting superheroes with the kids in my neighborhood. One of them went rogue and started corrupting the others, but it made for a good challenge. And then that time, when I was sixteen, and I fought with my friends in the woods, using dowel rods as swords. The rods stung my hand, but I did pretty well for myself."
"It's just..why bother? Why hide it all? It doesn't take that much of a leap to figure out that everyone is hurting, despite all our triumphs. We are so alike in our misery and our achievements that the compassion we might offer each other is as beautiful as anything we may accomplish on our own. We are such wretched, broken, beautiful souls, perfect in our imperfection. Because compassion masks all flaws. We're just too dumb to see it.."