Praying Mantis

How to begin? I am not certain in my motives for writing this, nor indeed do I have a firm idea of the intended audience. Confession? Justification? A purgation of what lies underneath my exterior? Perhaps a novel... or cautionary tale. Maybe I simply wish to see my inner landscape laid bare in a tangible format rather than having the ephemeral, haunted kaleidoscope of my inner thoughts as my only company. A place where imagination and experience appear to have fused into something monstrous and terrifying and which, if i m honest, I am no longer the master of. 

 I wasn't always this way. For much of my life I prided myself on my mental fortitude. I fancied my mind as something akin to a fortress, impregnable, unassailable. Something which could endure and test and experiment with any depth of feeling or experience. Whether that had been hard won or trivially gained. the interation between the world and my mind was not a thing to be feared but to relish. My inner monologue and convictions unyielding, immutable in the crucible of Earthly experience. At this point it seems usual that one would pour scorn on the naivitie of such a mindset to sneer at how foolish i had been in my innocence... but I am not such a harsh critic of my younger self. Was he naive or principled? Innocent or, perhaps, sane? I cannot tell now, and I think in truth can and could never hope to, whether or not I am insane. Whether the tribualtions of my life have endowed me with some  preciously earned wisdom which justifies my derranged mind or if I am hopelessly lost to madness. If the latter than these attempts to decipher and quantify  mu urges and behaviour are no more than the delusions of a lunatic.

  I appreciate what a stream of conciousness this outpouring is. But then on whose behalf am i appreciating? Who do I expect or hope to read these words? Maybe I only appreciate on for my former self who would, no doubt, be aghast at the lack of discipline vomited up on these pages and what this represents of it's author. But i cannot help myself i am compelled. I do no tknow if this will bring me relief but nothing else does and this is something i am yet to try... 

  The last sentence is demonstrably incorrect. Or at best a half truth. I have already expounded on the notion that by this writing I will somehow immortalise my tortured inner landscape. Not therefore a simple cry of relief. In the very words above this, less than a page ago. Clear evidence I fear of a disordered, fractured psyche. Does it bode well that i am able to recognise this. Or does such knowledge only add an extra, richer layer to the horror of my existence. a madman who can recognise his madness but nonetheless is supine before it. Read on then whoever you are, and though I do not ask for your pity still I crave, i entreat, your understanding. Something surely universal withing mmankind the desire to be understood by one's fellows. As you can see I have no wish or need to be mendacious about my existence. I want i NEED to be as open as possible if I am to hope to kindle recognition. If nothing else I am TRYING.

  To order then. I am a Police Officer. Currently i am a detective, but this is one of many roles i have occupied within the SERVICE. Whatever role i have inhabited in my career i have always, first, foremost and unadorned been a Police Officer.I suspect for many who would read these words this revelation will have already sent a slew of judgments, both positive and negative to begin forming as to me and my motivations. I will not indulge these judgements by attempting to list them but i would ask that you forego them and do not abraid me with such sentiments yet. Perhaps your preconceptions will prove accurate but i doubt it. Were it so easy to divine my impulses and drives I would, surely, not feel so grimly, relentlessly alone. Which i do. Unbearably so. Let your judgement come from my words rather than what you believe they may be. For my part i will try not to shy away from such judgement and will flay myself bare for your inspection.

[ Never posted any writing, creative or otherwise, before. Just a possible intro to a possible story.]