My mind, darkly. It is twisted and fascinated by mass killers and the evil deeds of men. When the background history, and the personality-filling, humanizing narrative about “killer x’s” life becomes known in the days after he has slaughtered a group of people, I tend to commiserate with the guy. It’s not that I condone his actions or believe he should be honored. I am simply enthralled by the wayward outsider, the destructive beast who wanted to watch the world burn and who made it happen.
I’m an outsider, I’m a beast, but I am not dangerous. I am happy, level-headed and work hard to achieve and maintain a state of ataraxia. Peace of mind steadies my grip but my mind wanders into the darkness in order to maintain its focus on the light.
I am a simple man, living a simple life. I harbor no ill will. I don’t care about others and I don’t delude myself that they care about me.
Mass killers are driven by an astronomic alienation that ultimately manifests in death and destruction. My own sense of alienation is benign and manifests in terrifying equanimity. My equanimity appears as a lack of affect to everyone, but there is a storm brewing in this heart. A benevolent and virtuous storm that is deathly curious.
Nevertheless, I identify with the deadly storms brewing in these killers’ hearts.
Yet, in the curious case of Stephen Paddock, I have finally met a mass murderer who does not appeal to my alienation constant. He strangely eludes the sphere of my nefarious haze.
Stephen Paddock was a disgusting slob, an empty shell of consumerism who wore flip fops with sweats and probably smelled like rotting snails. He was a gross dude with absolutely no enigmatic or esoteric machinations lurking in the subterranean depths of his madness. He appears to have been driven by money, food, comfort, and free shit. He sat his fat ass in front of video games for hours and days on end, pushing buttons like a vacuous 21st Century robot.
A droll tool masquerading as darkness.