In the end, my Joy is an illusion

C'est beau. Simply beautiful. Not many can hold my intrigue for as long as this one has. And the more I witness his true self at work, the more I become enthralled with him. His hate. His madness. His . . . wrath. It is so concentrated. I can literally feel his anger as it permeates the air around me. It caresses my skin with the tenderness of a lover. A lover that I would take great pleasure in having my way with right now . . . if it were physical in nature. It is this, the sheer desire I have for the physical embodiment of his anger that captivates me; that keeps me watching him.

Une personne est veritablement eux-memes quand ils sont seuls. A phrase that is engrained into my very being. And when spoken in French, it appeals to me even more so. Out of all the languages I've sampled, the sound of French seducing my lips triggers a feeling within me that not many other languages can.

Az a szemely valoban magukat, ha egyedul vannak

Una persona e veramente se stessi, quando sono soli

Eine Person ist wirklich selbst wenn sie allein sind

They all just seem so . . . beneath me.

And so is the fate of many of the souls I watch; uninteresting, predictable, one-dimensional. Nothing but un-extraordinary drones living out their insignificant lives as they march closer and closer towards eternity. I would happily end their miserable existences in a torrent of blood and sinew, if I could. Especially that foolish doctor. However, it seems that my bonds still hold fast.

An unfortunate encumbrance.

But witnessing this beautiful display of unyielding, unadulterated fury is a welcome compensation for my unpleasant predicament.

Only intellects such as my own can truly comprehend the beauty in violence and death. It's the stillness; the silence of a once living and breathing being, now turned into a soundless and unmoving corpse. It has a calming aspect to it. However, the real beauty rests not with the actual act of dying, but the transition from life to death. And that transition is personified in the facial expression of the person experiencing it. The sudden change in expression is so intriguing that it makes my mouth water with anticipation. From the agonizing pain and fear of impending death, to the serene and tranquil bliss of accepting their fate and letting go; not many things in this world are as magnificent. The kind of peace that those who die experience is what most search for their entire existences. Frankly many will never find it in life. But by gracing a person with une belle mort, I can give such peace. Any imbecile can commit an act of wanton brutality. Even a child has the capacity to kill. However, to perform a . . . sanguine symphony such as the one below me requires vision. And with each magnificent blow that my fiery savant rains down on his prey, his wrath's vision becomes more and more a reality.

Yes . . . Wrath.

That is his soul.

Common names never define a person. Two individuals with the same name can easily be polar opposites of each other in every fiber of their existence. So why should one be known by a moniker that any fool could have? It is more than an insult to those who truly deserve to walk this earth. For on this earth, the fool is king and his subjects are even more foolish and blind then could ever be imagined.

Frankly, nearly all of the population of this world does not deserve the luxury of breathing.

They are a nuisance to this place.

A parasite.

A disease sucking the very life out of all that surrounds them.

Oh, what a pleasure it would be for Wrath and I to go on a genocidal rampage to rid this world of the filth that infests it. It would be our gift to this world. Of course he would surely object to it.

This is most likely the only aspect of my macabre artist's personality that I dislike.

In his eyes, we and those like us are the disease. For a reason that I cannot fathom, he still insists on clinging to his past insignificance, as many do. If only he would fully embrace his anger, he would reach a level of perfection that would make me cry out with joy.

I am sure I could easily sway him to see things my way.

My methods of persuasion are quite effective.

However, with this one, it is exceedingly more interesting to watch his internal transformation from afar. And nothing can display the internal struggles and emotions of a person than external actions and behaviors. (Make sure to talk about his views on Truth and his restriction to observing others in his next chap).

Once again Wrath you have exceeded my expectations! Bravo! Vous m'avez satisfait, ma création! Bravo! Oh how I wish I could come and embrace you for the joy you bring me, though you would no doubt try to kill me if you saw me.

An amusing thought.

But he would try nonetheless. He still clings to his beloved vengeance so fervently. I suppose that his futile quest for an unattainable vengeance does increase his intrigue.

His puppeteer surely has him trained.

Complaints aside, he pleases me significantly more than that ridiculous doctor. Blithering idiot, he is. Oh how I loathe even the thought of that pathetic weakling. Even now I haven't the slightest idea as to why she felt him worthy of us. Every time he experiences one of his episodes, I pray that the pain causes him to go into cardiac arrest. Alas, I sometimes feel a ping of remorse for our past meeting. Though he is quite bothersome, I would have had nothing to do with his life if it was up to me at the time. Thus, I suppose it is not hate that I feel for the doctor. Disgust or pity perhaps, but not hate. There is only one being in existence that I hate with every fiber of my being.


And when the time is right, I will destroy him.

I will obliterate him beyond all recognition.

From his inner core, to his outer being.

I will annihilate his consciousness.

I will rip him limb from limb.

I will dance in his blood.

And when the time comes, and he no longer exists

Je serai libre

And I will be . . . overjoyed.