A personal journey into the psychotic mind.
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The Schizophrenic Writer
I am Dan Hoeweler, a paranoid delusional schizoaffective author whose works have recently appeared in several street newspapers and horror magazines.
I wish to achieve the following goals through my writing
- To explore the mysteries of the psychotic mind through a personal memoir
- To help others understand the issues of schizophrenia and homelessness
- To provide readers with entertaining characters, stories and plots
Within the psychotic mind lies horrors beyond the understanding of man. Within its depths one can find a world of spies, C.I.A. agents and thought control devices. This is a world that few travel to and it is here that one can face demons from beyond. If there is a hell then surely it lies within the inner depths of the psychotic, who roams our world in a terrifying alternate state of consciousness.
I have tried to capture the inner workings of the psychotic mind through my memoir, poetry and writings, which are painted within a paranoid delusional landscape. Within these stories one can meet an endless array of persecutory monsters that haunted my mind, and still continue to haunt the minds of millions.
Most call it schizophrenia. I call it my possession by Reverend Paranoia.
Reverend Paranoia, for me, is an evil preacher who stands upon a pedestal in a church preaching lies to different parts of my brain, telling them the horrors of the world where “decent people” live. The different parts usually listen and marvel at the preacher’s incredible speech. My optic nerve can see what he preaches at times. My audio nerve can likewise become fully convinced of his sermon. Reverend Paranoia is so convincing that I can become his undying servant, and no naysayer could convince me otherwise.
That night while I slept Reverend Paranoia whispered softly into my ear.
Why live in a world so cruel? Why not create your own world? Here anything is possible. Here you will be king.
He tempted me, and I obeyed. Trance like I followed. I would soon be running through the streets of Boston, in the middle of winter from imaginary gang members that were following me, while tears streamed down my eyes over my own death. I would soon be hearing voices from dark alleyways that had never been heard from before. It is soon my funeral. Most will experience their death in the end. I am special. I will experience mine before the end.