~• Jonathan Crane's Journal •~

Dated: Autumn, 2017

Like the leaves shedding from the trees in this doleful season, I fill out another page of my journal.

It is quite similar to how nature fills a grave with yet another corpse. The reasons for its death could be endless, just like my inclination to keep writing in this wreckage of parchment and ink. But death is unstoppable, and for the time being, so are my thoughts.

The vibrant greens and yellows of these fallen leaves are now a faded memory, blended to form the pages where I spill ink, mirroring the tapestry of emotions that I dissect and inscribe within.

What is this journal if not a graveyard? Made from the pulp of the trees that stand withered in the city, each page is a grave of words that will never meet another eye. No mourner will lay flowers on this grave, and no lover will lament a haunting melody.

It is just a silent retreat—a final destination that every soul has to reach, after which there is no life and no journey.

Today, I find myself strangely drawn to the tangled mess of human emotions. And I can't help but wonder whether I have become too desensitized to them due to my profession.

The dichotomy of human existence has always fascinated me. Two aspects set us apart from other organisms with whom we share this ecosystem. Our vast intelligence allows us to explore this universe while our emotions tether us to the primal desires that course through our veins.

Anger, grief, joy, despair—all become the shades that paint our lives, the torrent of leaves we shed to express our feelings.

For those who study psychology, it is imperative to study human emotions, these brief glimpses of what a person might think at a given time. Each patient's story is unique, but the underlying patterns are strikingly similar because they feel a certain way, determining how they react.

I recall my early days as a psychiatrist, where each session was a window into the human soul, filled with poignant moments of connection and understanding. But as time wore on, a certain numbness set in.

The tears of a grieving mother, the rage of a betrayed lover, and the fear of a traumatized child—all blended into the background noise subdued by the roaring screams of my ambition. These emotions became entries in the case files, mere data points on a clinical scale as I focused on rising above the basic evaluation and delving into something far deeper into the human psyche.

As a result, I learned to compartmentalize, to distance myself from the emotional turmoil I witnessed daily. Then, I stopped taking patients and applied for a job at Arkham, a part of my life that I sometimes wish never existed. I began to see emotions as a weakness I could exploit rather than a fundamental part of human existence.

Was this selective distancing a necessary defense mechanism? Or did I, in my pursuit of objectivity, sacrifice a part of my humanity? Will I still feel the pang of empathy, the sting of shared sorrow, if ever given the chance to experience it?

Can I still feel?

Exposure breeds detachment. The more we witness, the less we feel. The horrors I've seen, endured, inflicted—they've left their scars, not of the flesh, but of the soul. As a man who once reveled in manipulating fear, I now grapple with the possibility that my own emotional compass has been warped.

I look at people and know what they feel, but when I look in the mirror, I see nothing. My reflection haunts me with the blank stare of a man who has forgotten the gift of expressing emotions.

A part of me buried deep inside says that the capacity for unbridled emotion is a weakness. Yet, another part of my fractured soul rebels at the thought.

To be utterly devoid of emotion is to be inhuman.

After living in this illusion for so many years—becoming something greater than human, reflecting the power of fear, and embodying a monster to survive—I badly wish to be human again.

I wish to wake up and feel joy upon the start of a new day. I wish to look outside and not have the guilt of so many people I trod over in the past etched upon my soul. Most of all, I wish to live the rest of my days in peace.

I wish for many things—I guess the greed for always having more than I got never really died down.

But after all this time, which part of me died and which still lives on?

Another question for me to ponder in yet another entry to this graveyard of thoughts and unspoken words.

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Sometimes, I wonder what Doctor Fischer thinks of me.

She is a psychiatrist, too, and one with quite a remarkable career. If my license hadn't been confiscated, we would have been colleagues.

Does she view me through the desensitized clinical lens of her profession, or is there something more to her judgment about me? It could be kindness or sympathy, as she is indeed a very kind and empathetic woman. If I had to assign her to a Jungian archetype, I would say she is the caregiver.

Or it could be pity—remorse at seeing a bright mind succumb to insanity—an intellectual embarking on the path of madness. She could also be the savior—trying to pull out a damned soul from a mess of its own creation. A hero sacrificing her all for the sake of others.

But what does she think of me honestly—truly—without any courtesy or pretense to sugarcoat it?

Perhaps I will take this question with me to the grave and never get to hear the answer. Or perhaps I will ask her someday, and she might just tell me, and I might trust her enough to believe her.

Someday.

Would that day ever come? Does it even exist on fate's calendar?

And if it does not exist, then how long would I keep hoping for the right time to come along? How long would I wait to be granted the right words and approach?

I hear only one voice inside me now, and it says, "It will take an eternity."

Eternity.

In simple words, eternity is the evolution of this universe, from atoms coming together to nebulas in outer space.

Eternity is a lifetime of yearning and sorrow: a representation of the unrequited love between a moth and a flame, the inevitable chase of day and night, and the tragic story of the sun and the moon.

I do not believe in fantasies, nor do I have the imagination to dream of something other than sympathy to exist in Doctor Fischer's heart toward me. Even calling it sympathy is too mild. Perhaps it really is a pity for the fool or some inexplicable desire to fix someone like me who is beyond repair.

A morbid fascination with bringing stray souls to the right path or some mission that gets fulfilled by helping those who wouldn't even help themselves if given the choice.

I've known her for a long time now and attended too many therapy sessions with her to almost lose count of them. Her existence in my life has become one of the few things that I can count on being constant, just as normal as the sun rising after the night ends.

Yet I've been unable to figure out what drives her to keep helping me, lend me a listening ear, and treat me as a friend rather than a patient. Familiarity should breed comfort, not this pit of despair that opens up whenever she shows a hint of kindness. Even after all this time, it throws me off balance—perhaps my brain can't handle it and dives straight for negativity.

I still expect her to grow tired of me or tell me to leave and never return. But the days pass on in this mirage without her refusal shattering the dream.

And for once in my life, I do not wish to wake up to reality.

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