I seem to have lost my mind.
The process resembled nothing more than sanity, really, at least in the abstract. But the details... in the details, I suppose I can see now that, yes, I was certifiable. Temporarily, anyway.
It does make sense. Three months completely alone, isolated from all the luxuries and comforts I've grown accustomed to. Isolated from the luxuries the poorest of western society has grown accustomed to. If there was ever a circumstance designed to drive a man insane, I'd say that qualifies as the best of them.
My mind must have conjured him for company. Although why that particular kind of company, as oppossed to, say, a pleasant hallucination of Clark... for instance? That I can't understand.
Alright. So I can. But denial has worked wonders for me as a coping mechanism in the past, and I hate to let go of it so soon.
Unfortunately, I don't have a choice.
There's a reason I ended up on that island, after all. A reason the plane went down. Was it Helen? Was it my father? Both? Neither?
Those are the questions that haunted me these past three months, the questions I attempted to answer through my hallucinated counterpart. The questions that lurked through fever and starvation.
The questions that will be answered, as soon as I get home.
The questions I can't afford to deny.
As far as the rest, the man I thought real, what he did to his father, what I did to him... the details and analysis of that is best left to professional psychologists, I suppose, though I can imagine well enough what they would say. That my mind conjured the reality of my darkest nature, that my murder of the man was an attempt to subjucate that nature.
Did it work?
I doubt it.