prologue | the beginning

Everyone's writing their own book. May it be a novel for adventurous nerds or textbooks for mathematical and scientific geeks, a book for geniuses, a book for the unique or any other adjective that may descibe a certain person. Everyone holds on desperately to their pens and write at least a hundred words per second. You may not notice it, but you have been writing all along with the invisible ink inside your elusive pen grasped between your fingers. The way you breathe, the way you stand, talk, eat--- everything. Every single step was something you purposely wrote, etched inside your cerebrum.

The world is one sophisticated place to live in. It is boundless, endless, beautiful and ridiculously cruel--a perfect place for strories of unlimited genres. As for me, I already know that I'm writing my book, my own story with some unique plot that I can't somehow find yet mine isn't a novel nor a textbook. It's something simple, a thing that children would stare at for hours, a picture book.

There's only one small problem with my picture book. It isn't innocent, or happy. If it were to be brought to the physical world, children would have banged their heads onto book's hard cover, screaming 'bloody murder' until their ears bleed. They'll see distorted pictures of black and white smudged with red ink and heterochromic butterflies falling to the ground, disappearing to the smoke. My picture book also lacks another thing, a hero.

Ah, what a huge kaleidoscope it is; life. Especially if you're one of the insane.