My life as an Other. (a story)

Great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper. 

good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
become immortal.
if you read this after I am dead
it means I made it.

” Charles Bukowski

My life as an Other. (a story)

As a child i had an image of me as a sorcerer, it thought it to be a fantasy. But i became one, i know how i got here and not really with the help of Others. I thought i was alone as a child, now i know how alone i ‘really’ was a child. No one around me to talk to and now it does not matter anymore, the word has no meaning anymore. Sometimes i thought i had friens, thats the opeartive word, i thought i had friends, i never really had friends, Others only think about themsleves, just like humans. If those experiences could leave scars, i would be covered with scars like that. Now i am used to be alone, not thinking about friends or even companionship. I live my life and now even starting to fight to live life my way, Others can be very petty. i will murder an Other to make a point about living life my own way. Now everyday i am confronted with the pettiness of Others, even use weapons these days. I was a healer once, now i am only fighting to live life my way. 

An end.

***