"What does Physchocphy feel like?" He asked.
"Nothing." She replied. "Everything....Like I've been thurst a billion miles into the great depths of freezing ocean-and all are afraid of me, hating me because of what I can see. Who I am. Like I have been subsumed in a tsunami's inky blackness as dead as night itself-as dark as life. The unknown crippling around me, destorying my veiw of society and turning it inside out-black and white. With the tips of golden on the white knights riding the foamy waves-I just see black and white. I have an illness-And people scorn me-and mock me, and compare me to the most criminal! Because I'm objective, ambitous-think for myself. They see me as an ailean. It makes me one. Of course-if I said I felt fear and pain, you wouldn't believe me-call me the liar-the phsyco. I don't-" She added. "But ever so."
This dialouge brings me to an interesting moral debate-Who is the worst criminal?
The murderer who physically cannot feel-who knows nothing of why it is, coherently 'wrong' to kill?
Or thee who murders with love and emotion and compassion and rage-who does it not for moral ambiguiety, curiousty, and social outcast-but because he needs it.
Who is more selfish. The 'ordinary' person, or the one who cannot feel.
If you, in my opion, understand love, and passion and fury and wrath, and agony, and depression and glee and anxiety-It makes you crime evermore twisted and haunous-To point I would say Love is the criminal-The point I would say 'Physopath' the innocent.
Not to say I don't love love. I just wish socioety understood that calling someone a Physco, or Socio-path, is discrimintory.
But, hey,-Red to me could be blue to you. What is reality? Maybe you, or me, or any, thinks they are 'normal'.
(Sorry for spelling, I have dyselxia)