If I Was White

It's nuts, but I think about it sometimes. If I was white.....And, I woke up with all the "friends" I had right now. I'd probably become a psychopath a little worse than a serial killer-killing tens for every attack till I got caught-.

I'd go on a killing spree, and I'm certain I would leave no less than a hundred persons dead, and they'd all be friends or acquaintances and maybe one or two strangers to be the sprinkles on the sugary doughnut- each death something blunt unprofessional and uncalculated. I'd do it not because I'm mad at them or hate them, not because I'm mad... But because just because.

No. Not just because I'd do it because I'd love to burn all my bridges, every last one of them, from the rickety and shaky bridges to those that were made out of concrete and marble. Cos I know, I'd come back, always, I'd come back to build them back up probably stronger save only when those on either end of the bridges wouldn't want or have me back. If I was white, I'd get away with it; I'd convince a psychiatrist that I was troubled, not that I had a broken home or was abused. But because I've broken so often either by the things I hoped I'd get from people-emotional things- which never came though I saw them drop like raindrops effortlessly into others' lives and because I was crushed by how people lived smooth, streamlined lives when mine moved from one turbulence to the next like the cross-fade of songs on my playlist without me noticing the change till I was all in riding with so much fear but not having the power to stop riding.

I'd become the news for a month, maybe longer, creating scenes in the courtroom that would stretch out my hearing, waiting longer till when the judge and jury decide they'd have enough and sentence me to a psychiatric institution where I'd write all the books I've ever wanted to so badly, why? It's obvious that I wouldn't have to worry about worrying, not about what to wear, not about the next meal, taking care of kin, and most importantly, I'd be already popular, which would make my books something everyone would want to read- what does the mental case have to say- giving meanings and philosophy to mere scribblings though thought through. If I was white, I'd go over the edge, something the luxury of being black wouldn't or, better said, couldn't afford me.

Someday they'd probably find me slumped over my last ever book, wrists slit and blood soaking the pages with a cute little note beside it asking it be published exactly as met- it'd go down in history as the only book with the writer's true essence, his blood- or probably they find me hanging from the ceiling of the room in the mental facility my last book opened in the middle, blood dripping into it and the end of it being the exact narration of how my life ended why everything happened as it has happened, an apology to the parents and siblings of every child murdered during my bridge-burning exercise.

A description of heaven from my point of view and calling death "the end of hell." It would be gruesome to the world, maybe evil and self-conceited, but in the end, it would be the end of a carefully crafted and performed play or poetry. It would rain, and more meanings would be read to my death. I am, however, not white, and though I wished I was, sometimes, on those episodes of denied depression, I pray I don't become white on account of this.

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