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How am I doing? Well, if I answered that question truthfully, you'd likely walk away halfway through my answer. You don't really want to know how I'm doing, so don't ask. Isn't getting the answer the point of asking a question? So next time, before you open your mouth, consider the possibilities: One- I give a long, in-depth answer explaining everything that has been bothering me lately, and telling you just how I feel, Two- I lie and tell you that I'm fine, but what's the use of an answer that you know isn't true? Maybe you just shouldn't ask.
We're driving someplace. I thought I knew where, but you took the wheel and we took a turn I didn't recognize. Now a new horizon is in view and I know we will never actually travel that far. It is interesting nevertheless. A cold wind is coming through the open window, and although it's a little too cold for my liking, I'll leave the window down so I can feel free. One glance over at you and I know that we're together in this. Knowing that makes "this" unimportant. I shift my eyes back to the road I don't recognize.
Plucked from its life-source, it will inevitably die, but think of the happiness it will give, dying. Someone will smile because the gift of life isn't always the right gift. Sometimes you need a different, more fleeting message: something that's not so complicated, something that doesn't need any love or care, something that is sure to die. We all need it sometimes. We need to let it die. I think that it was the appropriate last gift. With the wilting of the rose, you see the meanings and the burdens of caring dissolve into space. We'll always love our roses.
It's hard not to smile back, hard not to return the favor, easy to run in the rain and open doors. It's obvious that I'm happy, though you might not know why. I'm not laughing at you, I just can't say what I want, so when I laugh, laugh with me. It'll work out that way, I promise. If nothing else stays with you, let me. If you carry one picture in your head, let it be a memory of laughs and smiles and just how ticklish you really are. There's something about laughing when you aren't alone in it.
And so the question arises: how should I allocate my displeasure? I'm thinking that I'll put a little in anger, throw a pinch in the self-pity bin, maybe some resentment, even (just for good measure). However, I think the recipient of the greatest portion of my emotional currency will be the "hurt" catagory, containing such subdivisions as lowered self-image, embarrassment, and so on. Well, you can say that it isn't me, but I'm not going to hear it. I'm taking it personally and that's that. Oh, and I'm holding a grudge, too. Apologies are past due and boy, I'm bitter.
What happens on those days when I'm not feeling so clever? Maybe I'm uninspired, or tired, or just plain lazy. What then? Do I bore you, the reader, or do I sit and stare at the monitor... hands poised and ready to strike any random key... likely followed by multiple backspaces and a bit of frustration... even when I feel that nothing will come of it? Well, in this particular case, I talk about my frustration and pretend that it is somehow interesting or unique. Maybe I've wasted 100 ever-so-precious precious words, but who am I to say?
I sat and watched them coming up to me, crying... remembering. I laid there and didn't... couldn't move. Well, I listened and a few people said that I got what I deserved. They're probably right. A few people were glad... okay, more than a few. Me though? I'm better off than they are. Hard to imagine, but they don't have it all figured out. They didn't get it and never will, until they share this space with me. Talking so loud, so loud that they hear nothing else. Stop and smell a flower... there are plenty of them here.
When examined close enough, nothing is clear; your eyes just can't focus. It's always the case. If it happened that you walked up to someone without really looking at them, it's liable that you're now going to find yourself right next to them, and you likely don't know a lot of things. Sure, you can hear them best now that you're right there with them, but are you going to rely on someone you don't even know, hardly ever saw? I don't think you would if you were where I am, far away, watching... seeing everything from the outside.
Over the fence I saw a boy, standing in the grass, playing with a toy, throwing rings onto a post in the ground. The mother came out and he abandoned the rings and ran to her. With son clinging, she made her way to the the boy's dad. The happy family went inside. A responsible son, the father called his mother to see how she was and to express how much he missed her. He then returned outside with his son and played ring-toss. He showed the boy how it was done, and the little boy got better and better.
In an effort to seem moral, we pretend. We pretend that helping someone up or holding a door is a selfless act, but it never really is. We always know the positive effects that these actions have, and that is why we do them. So many people go to church not because they care, but because it is their chance to dress up and say "Look at me, community, look at how prim and proper I am!" Well, I guess there's nothing to be done about it. But hey, let's not by hypocritical, we all have our little secrets.
We each have our Tyler, our id, our inner desires creeping out from under everything we want everyone to see. Day by day it rips a whole in our skulls, peering out into the world. No one would accept it, patch it up, doc. Sew my head shut because if what I'm thinking gets out, who knows what they'll do to me. Lock me up, throw away the key. That's just what I'm doing. I'm getting rid of every key I've ever known to have existed. They are all useless, so fucking useless. I don't want to go anywhere.
This is how I found him: all dressed up, staring at the phone, not moving, even to blink. No utterance from his lips when I approached, only the same blank stare directed at the same inanimate object. I think he was anticipating animation. Maybe he went cold in the process. And so I walked away, leaving him as I had found him. I wonder sometimes, even to this day, what ever came of him. I wonder if he still sits there, dust collecting on him, or if he finally got that call from whoever it was he was waiting for.
This is the part where you laugh, accept your role as an audience member in the play of my life. Time to cry individually packaged tears of sympathy. Boy that makes me feel good, knowing that you really care. I'm glad you've done your homework. You knew the script all so fucking well. It's an infinite perpetual motion xerox mirror, and we paid so much to have it installed. How is it working out for you? Did that confuse you? Well, if it did, here is some clarification: infinite modified mirror... perpetual modified motion. Happy, campers? Back to work, now.
If one day it suddenly occurs to you that I exist, I'll be damned surprised. Well, maybe not so much, unless on the same day you realize that I matter, too. Yeah, that would just about do it. My head would likely explode. WHOA! That's just a taste of the excitement, the happiness, the confusion that that day would bring. It's hard to say what reactions others would have, but you can be sure that this landmark event would procure their attention. Only one more uncertainty: what would your sordid intentions be? Surely you wouldn't give if you weren't getting.
It's hard to believe that you did it for all the right reasons, but I have to support your effort. Whether or not any of it really matters is something of question, but I'll miss the idea of everything... most of all the enjoyment that I got out of putting effort forth. It's just an akward situation, we might as well leave it at that. Walk away from the history book with the creased pages of the past and go write another. I'll be the author that can't stop writing the story, and can't stop wondering what might have been.
I was afraid that my dreams would disappear, that I would be left with nothing. Lucky for me, that didn't happen. All that happened was... we got closer. We went through something that was difficult, and we both came out in one piece. No problem was solved and I really doubt much has changed. I know that at least in my mind... we are closer now than we have ever been. I'm sure you didn't plan this, but I think that the closure to this story is becoming very nearly inevitable. Funny how it turned out this way, isn't it?
Here is something that I found interesting: "Everybody is waiting for the end to come, but what if it already passed us by? What if the final joke of Judgment Day was that it had already come and gone and we were none the wiser? Apocalypse arrives quietly; the chosen are herded off to heaven, and the rest of us, the ones who failed the test, just keep on going, oblivious. Dead already, wandering around long after the gods have stopped keeping score, still optimistic about the future. I guess if that's true, then it doesn't matter what you do."
Driving back, you were asleep, you were peaceful. I was so tired, and I wanted to close my eyes and put my head against yours, but I had to be awake to drive us home. I did the next best thing though: every chance I had... every moment I could steal away from driving... I concentrated on you. I loved everything about it... the way you felt against me... (I knew you were dreaming something beautiful)... the way you looked... the way you always looked... how you smelled... I couldn't help but want to follow you inside and lay down.
I'm glad you stayed behind. Seriously, if you and assfuck had come along, I probably would have just gone home. I have no desire to be around the two of you while you flirt and play with each other's penises. It is pretty sad that everyone around you that used to be such a good friend is now in such a far second to your boyfriend's man-meat. I hope he chokes on a load. Man, could you even imagine his face if that were to happen? I mean, of course, before he died. Oh shit, man... he wouldn't even know.
I know you're upset, disappointed, sad, and probably crying, but the truth still remains - you can't undergo this sort of personal mitosis that you seem to want so badly. I'm sorry, but I can't create a parallel universe for you to exist in, and I'm sorry that what it all comes down to is a decision that you want nothing more than to avoid. Maybe you'll find the answer though, maybe someone will show you the way. Don't limit your hopes to what I know. It's always possible that I'm behind the times. I wish you the best of luck.
Happy Birthday to me. I'm 18 today. It's a sort of mixed blessing... I can now buy cigars, but I can't fuck little kids anymore. I guess I'll have to find a new hobby. There is always the issue of what I got for my birthday, but what would you care, reader? Would the fact that I got an espresso machine and a new keyboard matter to you? Probably not. Would anything really matter to you? Why exactly are you reading this, anyhow? Well, if it was to be entertained... I apologize for this entry. Everything is so fucking funny.
I'm holding a box. In it is everything that I've gathered in my time here. My thoughts, my feelings, everything... that's what it contains. I have to caution you though, that not everything in this world is as beautiful as we would all like to belive. In this box there is a world and I'm making no promises about what you're going to find. All I can guarantee you is that once you open it, you aren't going to be able to shut it again. I'm putting it down and leaving the room now. No locks, but you've been warned.
Want to know the quickest path to lonliness? Stop talking to one of the most intriguing people you have ever met. Stop that constant flow of ideas, thoughts, and emotions that you know is your very lifeblood. It's not just lonliness, its not living at all. But, of course, it just may be possible that you don't have a choice. Going back to the way things were is no progression, surely. It's not a step forward, but who said that a step forward is a step in the right direction? Truth is, I really don't want to progress like this.
I'm so exhausted, but I don't want to sleep without hearing your voice. I'm sure, though, that you aren't going to call. You've no reason to. I don't know where you are, but if I knew, I'd go there. I'm calling your house and it's too late, I know... but I don't want to close my eyes until I know you're there. Shit... let's be honest here. You're somewhere else, you aren't where I am. It's likely that you'll never see what I'm seeing right now, likely you'll never be right where I am. I'll always be here by myself.
I could go on for days about all the things that attract me. I could tell you every deep dark secret I hide away from the world in a little locked box in my head. I could let you know how your mere presence affects me in such a positive way, illiciting nothing but a warm feeling resonating like footsteps in a long empty hallway. I could tell you how beautiful you are in my eyes. I'd tell you how I intend to always make you smile, and what those smiles mean to me. This wouldn't do my feelings justice.
Looking back makes me think that I've left all the good times, all the bad times behind. Then, I realize that if that was true, I wouldn't care if they were good or bad. I've come to the conclusion, therefore, that I still have them with me. Unfortunately, there is something about the bad experiences that makes them different... they stick more. I'm not so sure what makes them sticky, but it's like velcro. I'm the loops, they are the hooks... and they latch on and never come off, unless I've torn them away, and that's oh-so-painful. You're so sticky.
I think that it's safe to say that if you miss me even half as much as I miss you, you're going crazy. I don't mean that you're slightly unnerved, maybe paranoid type-of-crazy. This is the sort of thing that doesn't leave you, even when you sleep. No prayer could save you now. I can feel my existance becoming more fractured by the second. I see my life through a cracked looking-glass. Ask Van Gogh what I'm talking about. He'll tell you. Love is like U-238. It's incredibly powerful, but when you're done, there's no good place to hide it.
Sometimes when I watch any old person go about their daily (assumingly common) routine, sometimes I have to hold back the laughter, or maybe it's tears... I'm never quite sure. Anyhow, it just seems that there is no life there, sense of surroundings and surely no appreciation for it. It's all I can do to not stop someone and say "Hey, smile! This is life and you're dying one second at a time so you better fucking love it!" Sometimes I tell Erin, mostly because I worry about her. I hope she doesn't get too stressed. I really do worry.
I know what happened. I do. They took her, tied her hands... gagged her, and killed her. They blew her fucking head off, military execution style. They knew what they were doing. Quick, efficient, deadly, cold, the sort of precision that you only see in the sick and twisted, or the dead at heart. Lifeless she lay and nothing she had to say. You'd think that in death, she would no longer perform her job. If you thought this though, you'd be wrong. Here lies my muse, dead... a bullet wound to the head. What a great source of inspiration.
As the month draws to a close, my words will be shown to the world, but very few people will actually look. This is how it is with everything. So many things at our fingertips, and we shove our fists up our asses. We are amazing creatures, you have to admit. We take everything we can and appreciate everything that we didn't take. Where does this leave us? I guess I shouldn't complain about the roots of capitalism. Without it, who knows where we would be. Thank god for making us greedy, selfish bastards. Back to work, little worker bee.
He and his wife sat at the table and talked. She was smoking, he was drinking. They conversed. Outside, the sun was already set and the night was a blanket under which all the people of the town hid. The conversation continued and they became tired. On her way up to bed, the woman thought about the conversation, and realized that it had all been said before. When she arrived in the bedroom, she found her husband crying. "We've killed it, and it's not coming back." His wife joined him in his pool of misery, laying on the floor.
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