CONFESSIONAL

Something strange has happened to the deranged population of our nation. We, as a whole, are in a hole of isolation with emotions that are on a permanent vacation. We, collectively, don't give a damn who we are. And I don't know or care who I am.

There is a vacancy inside of me, an emptiness that makes me less than I should be. I, and maybe you and others, too, are victims of complacency, an agency which strangely makes us free of self respect, integrity and responsibility. As a result, we can dress like a slob, loaf on the job and rob and steal and not feel guilty or be ashamed of blame.

I have an obsession to make this confession be cause it eases me of the depression that encapsulates me. But keep in mind as you read these lines that I am not what I seem to be. I use the "I" and "We" editorially to describe the personality I see in others who I observe objectively. And speculate could happen to me.

What I write about "I" or "Me" or "We" or "He" or even "She" is strictly fiction, intellectuality. I observe the population and arrive at a summation of my observations. What I write, wrong or right, I leave up to you to decide. I admit I write from the brain, not from the heart. But if my words strike a chord, if they ring a bell with your private hell, only you know what you must do.