Am I really mad? Or at least, as mad as they say I am? The idea still seems quite foreign to me, as I feel that I am very much sane. My actions, however, suggest otherwise. Well, they do a tad more than merely suggest. They scream it, as loud and as proud as they possibly can. So loud that I actually believed the screams. For a certain period of time, anyway.

My actions, too deviously hideous for me to relive in any sort of detail, were not ones of blind insanity, as many seem to believe (or wish to believe). The terrible deeds I took part in were deeds of curiosity. It was not barbaric cruelty which fueled my motives. It was not some sort of sexual satisfaction that I looked for. It was neither a sick sense of humor, nor a craving for blood that shoveled the coal into my will's metaphorical furnace. It was simply curiosity which kept me going. I had the gall to ask myself, as I'm sure many of us do from time to time, “What if?” The only difference is that I found the answers to those nagging questions that were eating away at me.

You must believe me, dear reader, when I say that I am not insane. No matter what my actions say to you, I am not insane. I simply had the raw courage that is essential to answer the questions I had. The questions I asked, which I'm sure you're becoming tired of hearing about, dear reader, were not insensitive and ignorant. They were not of evil intent, nor were they of good intent. They were out of pure curiosity. Curiosity of how the world would react to certain actions, if they were to react at all. So, in order to discover the solution of my undying imperatives, I had to carry out the actions. And so I did. And sometimes, the world reacted the way I expected: scared, confused, shocked, disgusted. But, to my delight, some reactions surprised me. Such reactions included sympathy and concern. The former reactions were more plentiful, of course, but it was always a nice change of pace to see a reaction that was different from the crowd. It restored my faith, in a way.

My actions screams have become louder and louder, and my voice is becoming softer and softer. When people look at me, they only see a shell of a man, a rotting corpse which just keeps on living. But when I look at myself, I see a perfectly sane and moral man. Not a perfect man, not by any means, but I certainly do not see the eyes of a madman staring back at me from the dusty mirror. The screams portray me as a monster. They spew slanderous claims, claims I do not wish to repeat. I do not define myself by my actions, and you should not either. I define myself by what I am, and by what I am alone. And that is, an extremely curious man.