C.H. Valentino

....My name is Samantha Marlow,

 

and I haven't got time for this shit!

 

Imagine, if you will, two writers- lock steadfast in debate. Foiled with each other like some fantastic character arch indicative of the Italian Rennisance. Imagine one broad shouldered, blackberry haired sociopath that governs the extremities of one very ambivolent woman; who in her own regards, is very much still a girl lost among the sum of her inner parts- those inner parts consisting, predominantly of... her. And me.

 

Such is one led to believe that she, me...I...suffer from multiple personality disorder. That we collectively inhabirt one body but share multiple different levels of consciousness. Yet- were it not for the body, we would not exist thereby negating all diagnosis of MPD.

The diagnosis requires that at least two personalities routinely take control of the individual's behavior with an associated memory loss that goes beyond normal forgetfulness; in addition, symptoms cannot be due to substance abuse or medical condition.

 

So, then, WHAT are we?

 

We are enemies. We are lovers. Friends. Collegues. Associates. Best friends. Ruling parties. Losing members. Fantastic. Flawed. Symbiotic. But beyond all that- we are destructive. The surgery that kills- remove us, might kill her. Leave us, she might kill herself.

 

We come from a long line of possession- felt by many thousands of writers, painters,muscians, singers, actors... creative people who let the tumor grow unchecked until it put an unnatural amount of pressure on the lobes of the brain- but also broke free that common day constraints and agreements of the mind. We're free- because we don't exist.

 

We don't exist because we're not real. But religion teaches us, often then intangible brings a swifter and more painfull death than any mortal set upon mortal.

 

Knowing all this, I still chose civil war with C.H Valentino.

 

S.A.M