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Spinning, titling, speeding things -– and that is all the mind can grasp of that atom that rules us, that makes us, that pulls together our pieces. The nuclear power within us, that drives us, is beyond our compression.
Maybe it is more mental, less physical that we think. Like those emotions and those feelings that move us, that form us, it is all beyond the reaches of the mind; yet still they define who we are. Nuclear and personal, our future is in the hands of wild, fast, and uncontrollable forces, and our fingertips cannot hope to reach that far.
This is not hypocrisy. This is the natural confusion of wants, thoughts, words, and actions. I say peace and wreck war -- it is the sway of insecurity and time on human emotion.
I am older than I think I am: I still feel young. Growing up is not measured in age, it is measured in solidarity. The mature adult has a direct correlation: want -- think -- do. I have not yet grown up because it still gets mixed up when it comes out. There are gaps in the process yet to be filled.
I am not a hypocrite.
There is a delicate balance here, but I cannot see the scale. I can see only the gifts they give me and the hate they veil behind their eyes.
I dance through their midst and my flamboyancy is all I have now. I forgot myself long ago. It is tempting to fall into self-pity -- but God's own graces would not be so sweet as their flattery. I am adored, I am envied, I am flattered; no one rivals me in that. This is what I can do to survive.
Their hate is hidden -- that is all that matters.
Ask me what the consequence is and I will tell you: no one ever knows. One moment pure and simple, the next a thousand errors, and tracing the line from point A to point B is nearly impossible.
I never mean to hurt those people that I love, but they are the ones that I wrong most often -- the consequence of silly comments or a moment out of my control. There is no way to tell what will emerge or on who it will chance to fall.
I would apologize in advance if I knew what to apologize for.
My skin is so white I can trace my veins from my wrist to my elbow. I know what it is, what it does. It covers me and protects me, it holds together my raw bits and pieces. It hides my delicate mechanisms where neither air nor water nor light can harm them. For that much I am thankful.
But I wish it could be different skin or none at all. I wish it could be smoother and less heavily scarred or stripped away -– bare, so that my bones are exposed and the whole world knows who I really am.
I stepped away from life for a moment so I could take it all in. I wanted to see it, to know just how big my little problems were, so I let myself slip out just far enough to see the whole thing.
I had expected to be somehow touched by what I saw -- but while standing there looking at the immensity, the multiplicity, the simplicity, there were no emotions. Emotions did not matter. I had no choice but to keep on living. I had stepped back so that I could understand what it was. Nothing more was necessary.
What do you want to change? written on the stall door.
I want to change all the stupid things in my life. I want to be smarter, smoother, and less disturbed. I want to be proud instead of ashamed. I want to be the type of person that can let things go.
And no stupid Christian message written on a bathroom wall can help me. "With hope and love you can--" it can go to hell. Life doesn't change because of a superficial, incomplete scribble. Those good intentions are lost on me. You see, I don't believe in miracles.
Surrealist -- unrealist -- pragmatist. It doesn't matter if we're dead or alive.
Questioning this gift of life on Earth is pointless, but we all do it. We all want to know the why, the how, the what for. We all ponder thinking and being.
But in the end, in the here and now, it doesn't matter what the answers are. You're breathing, aren't you? You're touching and acting and doing. No matter the answers, you're still here. So stop thinking and move -- mean -- be.
Is that the why?
I don't know. I don't care. It doesn't matter.
The heart centers the body, holds emotion wrapped in mortal coil of anxious beating muscle. The mind squirms to capture all thoughts, to chew them up, spit them out, and create facts from wind and brain matter.
The heart rules me, and I hate it. I hate being as weak as the toddler with a tantrum. I am not moral, thinking, unswayed, unmoved, and rational; but I want to be, once in too-long a time.
Is that only human, wanting thought rather than the wildness of emotion? Am I alone in seeking fewer feelings and less depth?
Sometimes I worry.
I want to know how to have your superfluous and unnecessary human feelings. I want to touch overwhelming joy just like you do, with your ease of inhale and exhale.
Because you, only you, can live and love and not ache with the pain of loss when it all slips away. There is something special about you and your emotions that makes you alive and immune. I am frightened, you are not -- and I would rather be you than me, with your potency and vitality and no fear. I am not that strong, and you know how to love.
I am a legend, a myth, and memory. I am a story of conscience -- but I don't understand, I can't find the moral.
Every morning the harpies rip open my chest, every evening I heal again; but these are my own harpies, vicious birds born feather from my skin, claws from my mind, beak from my heart. The world goes on, it turns on, and inside all my demons are laughing.
This is not external, this is not hellfire, this is not the revenge of an angry god. Something inside is speaking to me. I don't understand the words.
Things were fine, before John went mad.
But that was just the problem: things were always fine. Good job. Solid friends. Steady income, nice house, and a cat that used its litter box. By everyone else's standards, he had nothing left to ask for. What more could be have wanted?
It was simple answer. He wanted something different, something new. He wanted growth, he wanted evolution. But there was no room for that in a twenty-first century house or in a dead end job.
The only place that he could find change was in the barrel of a gun.
Acting crazy is a way of appearing sane in this world. Sometimes the only way to get attention is to demand it. But then there is someone -- and you understand them, they understand you, and together you can fit together the pieces --
There should be anger in the face of tragedy, but this time there is not. Only loneliness -- sadness -- and the coldness of sleeping alone.
I hate wanting, I hate it more than anything else in this world; but I do want, and I cry at night. I hate myself for it.
We are all human.
It would be so fucking nice to hurt something right now -- to get this feeling, this swarming hate, out of my system and beaten into something else. I'm better than this -- this failure, this weakness -- and I feel like digging my claws into soft skin and ripping away the layers.
Yes, that is air on open nerves.
I hate helplessness and fatigue. I hate failure. I hate the thought that I am not capable, that I can't do it. I hate that this aggression must stay internal, eating me from the inside, and it can't come out.
You are as easy as sin for me and the rest of the world is so hard. It is intangible, it slips like mist though my grasp; but you are real to me, you slide like silk beneath my touch, you come as easily as breathing.
I think I am falling in love with you.
You play me like a flute, you find my vices and exploit them until I break. I love you for it -- because only you, in this world of billions, have ever moved me. Your gentle beauty has reached me though the dense and heavy fog.
It should be obvious, but there is no way to tell that they are father and son. There is an emptiness between the two of them where there should be love. In the end, he grew up as if he had no father. Childhood picked up and moved on, and he was left adult, cold, and heartless.
It is difficult to love someone like that, but I manage. There is goodness in him still, and maybe even warmth; and if he is willing to risk trusting himself to me, then I owe him no less than my love in return.
These are current emotions, things swimming around up here, in my head. I am cold -- the world is colder. There is nothing I would rather do than sit here until this feeling wears off.
When I get up every morning it almost hurts -- just being awake. Going to sleep every night reminds me that I am lonely. All my words, all my acting, it all comes down to this: I am a collection of silly little splatters that have meaning only to me.
A change in sleeping habits is a sign of depression, and I slept in this morning.
Grow up, grow wiser. Learn to be colder, if that's what it takes. I know what you're going through. I've been hurt before; but I was clumsy then, and that doesn't happen anymore. I know it sounds cruel and cold, but part of maturing is learning that paranoia and isolation are healthy. Solitude is safe.
At this point, there's nothing you can do but get over it. You know that, even if you would rather keep your grip on the tired and deluded values you were raised with. I have faith: you will come around, in time. We all do.
The view of the night world from the sky is clearer than a thousand lights on New Year's Eve. Streets glitter like God has made the Earth dance alight aglow. For a moment -- brief moment -- I am not breathing and peace of Earth is no longer so far away. While far above and removed I cannot see the busy rushing lives that pass down there. There are only sparkle homes, cold and unworried. I never want to land and I never want the sun to rise and reveal living breathing broken land where crystals are melted and gone.
Humans are limited creatures. Our minds do not stretch far enough. Even our own God is beyond our comprehension: his greatness, his largeness, his presentness is too much for our minds to understand.
But our metal weakness is not inherent and is not irreversible -- because only one thing is larger than the concept of God, and that is human capability. One day, when we learn to stretch our minds, we will creep up on God, comprehend him, swallow him.
The human mind is the only thing that is truly immeasurable, the only thing truly beyond our power to comprehend.
I wish that I could be seldom seen. I wish I had the power to fade from sight so that I could dance around the unsuspecting. I want to know if anyone else whispers to themselves at night. I want to know if I am the only one like me, or if every other teenager out there falls asleep cold. Neither answer would really surprise me, but I still want to know; because it is lonely here, in my mind, and it would be nice to find out that we all wish and worship and want. Only the fly knows.
Math classes are made for philosophy. They are always far too early in the morning, when the mind has not yet joined the waking world and when any distraction is a pleasant one.
Variables are names and numbers for the things that we do not understand but cannot live without. God is one such variable: the reason for "why do I live?" that we need to hear so badly. It is a question that we all ask.
I am an atheist. The only answer I need is: "for myself."
Things are laid out so simply in the sleepy early morning.
There is a certain death, a quiet death, that is not a tragedy. It is not violent, not painful -- not even for the viewer outside. It is a white death, a peaceful death, and it should not be avoided or feared. That perfect death should be something sought: a rest, a reprieve, a change from life. What comes later will come on its own, but those moments of beautiful death are for the victim to pause, consider, and be empty.
A funeral with an open casket and a white face should not disturb. That sight of sleep should comfort.
I can feel your heartbeat imitation under my hand, and it makes me sad that you are so scared to live. You beat a false tattoo and hope that it will fool us while you hide where you are safe and alone.
I was like you, once. I know it is easier and more comfortable where you are shut away from the world. There, nothing can touch you.
But as long as that false rhythm beats, you are not truly living. You can keep this up forever, but only real life will ever teach you what love and pain are.
I will tear you limb from limb -- there is no greater pleasure than that. Devouring you will be a blessing. I would be content to simply render you helpless: whining, crying, begging for "anything but this."
This is the strong against the weak. This is revenge and retribution. This is you getting what you deserve. Don't for a moment thing that you haven't earned it. You should've seen it coming and it shouldn't be a surprise. You set foot on Earth and in those very first moments, you sinned against me. You've been asking for this from the start.
I slip into my mind so easily, and hide there to think about far-off things that don't concern me. I write hundreds of words about lives I have never lived and never reached for.
When I am thrown back into the world, it shocks me. This is my reality, where I am not a boy and not in love and not successful and indeed very few things that I create in my head. I am a teenage girl who hopes for greatness; nothing more.
The world sends out its greeting "you are here" and I stumble to reply.
I am the voice that whispers when you sleep. I am the words inside your head that make you giggle, make you laugh, make you mad. I am every whispered thought that drove you to dance.
There is a place where devils and angels hold hands, and that place is locked away inside your skull. It is a world of wonder in there, and everything that we dream could be true.
I am your demon inside. Do you fear me? There is no reason to. You bore me, you birthed me, and together we can do anything. I am yours.
If I said I wanted to learn, you would believe me now? Imagine I had said: I have been too inhuman for far too long and I think you can mold me back into a mortal. Pretend: You understand life, and you can ride the ups and downs without breaking. Wish: I admire you, and if you teach me I will learn to be what you are.
We both know it isn't true. I love to stand up here and watch you all scramble down there. I will never turn back and I will never ask you for your help.
The last year in review:
I have never been so frightened in my entire life. I have never wanted anything so badly. I have never hated quite like this before. I was the girl who feared the world would hurt her, and now I am the girl that wears fishnet to school.
For once in my life I screamed from the rooftops: I am worthy! and I made the world listen. For once, I was acknowledged and wanted, and I don't know if I have ever been so proud before.
I learned to be paranoid, to glare, and to love.
The year in review:
We are out for revenge and we hide hate behind patriotism. We are sheep, and ignorance disguised as education is out bliss. Students walk out of classrooms to protest closing schools. We are free but gay and black and female is still a sin.
I am young and naïve and stupid, but I know that I have never seen peace so far away. It made me cry and it makes me angry, because for all of our human greatness we are not able to rise from our faults.
I am the pessimist that this world deserves.
New Year's Eve is video games and flirting with a boy that I will never date, and I loved it. Somehow, I have good friends. Some time in the night I realized that they love me -- god knows why, but they do.
I would rather the new year never come and I wish I could spend forever without a future to face, but time ticks down and then it doesn't matter any more, the moment has come and gone.
In the next twelve months I will be shocked and terrified, and all that I can do hold on tight.
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