Impure Thoughts

The woods were watching me, judging me, mocking me - Staring down with there thick brown eyes, arms reaching every direction. Long and imposing, like a priest judging you for your sins. To wind whistles a soft tune, one that resents the world it plays to - Hard and offbeat; it plays like an upset grandpa complaining about the newest generation. The leaves fall, making sure to avoid me as they seemed to be disgusted by my face.

"Sinner! Filthy, filthy sinner!" The leaves shouted in anger without saying so much as a peep. I can't, I can't do this. I should I just kill myself - End it here and now. Would that makes things better? No. Would it end my suffering, this fucked up ungodly pain in my head? Yes. I can't, I don't - Fuck! Jesus, look who I've become, a murderer. I don't care if it was for self-preservation, I did it! I killed, damnit...!

But then - The fire, the campfire; I need to find the campfire. Why? Why does the allure of that fire attract me so? I don't know, but there is a comfort to it; a pleasant sort of comfort one gets from a freshly baked pie. That campsite is a safe haven for the wicked and the unholy, murderers and the damned. I think there is another way - The sound that doesn't go away and stays for days. They say do bad, how do you lose if don't? Maybe I should kill them all, since I'm a filthy murderer now. I... No!

No! No! No! Shut your dirty mouth, you dumb motherfucker! You stupid piece of shit, I would burn this town down, and leave you inside as you fucking die. I could not and would not hesitate to think about all the ways to kill you, and I would gladly smile as you drown! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!! And it sure would be a good time too, you dipshit. Why?! Why?!

My brain was exploding with impure thoughts, like a mockingbird singing along to a Charles Manson song. Am I coming undone? Perhaps so, but maybe not.

I reach the campsite.