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Imagine my fear, just looking into your eyes. Did you ever picture this? I did, but only followed by a laugh and a shake of my head. It's just one of life's bitter ironies that it happened, and was followed by that same fake laugh and shaking head. That scenario in itself deserves a laugh, but I'm not about to humor myself like that. I wonder... if this were a movie, what would the audience feel? Would they cry for me, laugh at me, or shake their heads in that same disgusted manner? What a chain of events that'd be.
Step with one foot, feel the ground melt underneath you. Look around, see the houses smiling at your smile. What a funny, funny world. Eat your morning cornflakes, watch them float in their sea until you play god (a funny expression, sincegod never really intervenes... wonder why...). Let the car radio tell you how to feel, driving to work. Look up at the skyscrapers as they look down on you. They aren't smiling at your smile. Your feet don't make the slightest impressions on these sidewalks. Look up again and you see nothing but parachutes. Where are their owners?
If Bria sits in front of Jeff, and Craig is in front of Eric, and Ryan is the only person between Phillip and Erin, and Jason is to Phillip's left, and Ryan sits beside Craig, and Bria makes stupid comments that everyone laughs at (though she doesn't usually know why), and ice ages are times of freezing, not thawing, and neutrinos move faster than light, and are theoretical massless particles which make up Erin (aka assistant commander/EMo), why does Dr. Colton tell us the same damn stories over and over? I really wish that he would stop it.
Clever works out sometimes. But other times, I wish that I was more ordinary, and less prone to blurting some witty statement at the risk of everything. Being me is maybe a risky thing if I don't keep me in check (which I don't). Outspoken is a mixed blessing. I haven't yet figured out if I don't know when to exercise my freedoms of speech, or if I just don't care... since I am free to do so. My insecurities only silence me from time to time, and I still can't decide if it is beneficial. I'll never really know.
It had been a while since I had a conversation worth having. I had long doubted that I would have one any time soon. At least I can admit that I was wrong when I said it. So, here I am, once again, with a worthwhile person. What to do with the situation? Hopefully this isn't one of those things where I get discarded after a single use, like... well... I'll not even finish the similie, because I'm sure that you can figure out a clever one. Of course, there is little risk of that quite yet, since I haven't exactly made any requests beyond those of friends. Not yet.
It's funny that you went from being that cute face that seemed so far away to being that cute face that acknowledged me. I won't lie. A particular Dave Matthews song now reminds me of you. Not because of what it's about, but because I now associate it with you. It has a different meaning for me than for anyone else in the world. Are you glad? Am I just another smiling admirer, or is there some sort of exchange? I'll give it some time, but it will seem like forever if I can't get you out of my head.
Being alive is such a beautiful thing, all in itself. I apologize to myself for not realizing this every day. But I know that I understand how hard of a thing it is to remember sometimes. I am in love with life, with the very act of being a human being. The feeling of genuine happiness is the most valuable commodity in the entire world, and I know that I have experienced it enough to have become addicted. I won't deny it, and I won't hang my head in shame. I am filled with a feeling of euphoria. I'm alive.
I hope that it isn't my destiny to forever be writing letters to no one. I hope that it isn't my fate to always sit alone and search for happiness in another life. I hope that I'm not meant to be forever lonely because I'm wishing for someone to come and lift me up with their radiant smile. I hope that I'm not predestined to look on from a distance, wishing for everything to come to me because I'm too scared to walk... or fly. But most of all, I hope that destiny, fate, and predestination don't exist at all.
Thank you. Thank you for making me smile, for making me laugh. Thank you for listening. Thank you for saying something worth listening to. Thank you for being you. Thank you for being honest and genuine. Thank you for once again reminding me why I love being alive. Thank you for the movie ticket. Thank you for the conversation over coffee. Thank you for making me feel worthwhile, for being worthwhile. Thank you for smiling and being a pleasure to be around. Thank you for telling me to drive safely. Thank you for caring. Thank you so very much.
I wish that I lived in a place and a time where words such as "talk to you soon" were genuine and meaningful. But here I am, in the United States, year 2003 and that statement obviously carries no weight at all. It must just be a means of placating someone, making them shut up while you run away, hands over your ears. I could go so far as to take it personally. I could translate the silence into simple English: "Ryan, you aren't worth the time." Or maybe, "Ryan, I'm too good to give you my precious time." Whatever.
What a person thinks of him or herself is actually very important. Let's consider those people who think they are the best thing since sliced bread - even if you agree, you will probably end up vomiting or crying because you just aren't good enough for them, unless you happen to find them when they are vulnerable, and then you are important... for just that time. After that, buddy... you're fucked... straight up the ass. It is pretty frightening how many people realize how uniquely wonderful they are. Me? Well, I guess you could say that I take myself for granted.
What I really want in my life is a person who really is quite incredible, but who doesn't quite understand the effect she might have on people. I would love to tell this person every day how amazing she is. She would rock my world, and I would not be afraid to tell her. But if she ever totally understood the impact of her actions and her simple presence, then it would all come crashing down. There is something to be said for modesty, and even more to be said for being genuine and innocent. How can I tell her?
Disclaimer for anyone reading this who might know me in actual life: This is about a number of people, or no one. It is unimportant, but don't be so arrogant as to think that I'd dedicate this to you. That said... here goes -- You are such a bitch. You don't understand what I said. It is my money, not yours. You do not own me. Neither do you. You however, well... I wish you did. You are arrogant. You are overbearing. You rape my happiness. You are about one cunt hair away from getting bitch-slapped right across your stupid face.
I'm not meant to be pissed off because I'm alive. No one warns you when you're little that when you grow up, some people really are stupid enough to hate you for no reason at all. No one told me that some people on this earth lack common sense. Had I realized that my bitch ex-girlfriend would condition the next guy that came along to hate me, I would never have spoken to her in the first place. Of course, I've no crystal ball, so I talked to her for far too long. I'm not scared, just disgusted with everything.
It is hard to walk away from a battle I know I could ultimately win. But you'd never even realize how stupid you sound, how much sense I make and how wrong you are. Either way, it is an empty and unrecognized victory for me, and a misinterpreted victory that you so think you see so clearly. Statements are not inherently clever, weighty, or true. That is something that you need to understand. Need help with that? Go get yourself a dictionary. Contrary to what you think, I have better things to do than deal with your silly, stupid shit.
One thing that is sickening but at the same time entertaining: your words, "I won." You're one big fucking riot, you know? We never competed. Whatever you have, you have, whatever I have, then so I do, or so I don't, but don't mistake that for competition. Don't tell me you won. If you want to think it, if it makes you feel better about yourself, then you go right ahead and think it, but nothing about you has anything to do with anything to do with me. Follow that? Get your feel-goods in while you're still in high school.
The tired boy sat at the computer and began to type something which was not-so-carefully thought out, except for the basic framework and idea, and which was to be read by you, the reader, actively and you, the reader, were meant to be interested because it seemed to be an attempt to be interesting, but it was confusing because it was just one long sentence which was purposefully confusing and roundabout and it strove to say only that in this particular case, the joke itself, and not the punch line was that which was meant to be entertaining.
Sloth is a wonderful thing. I have absolutely loved comitting this deadly sin for more than two days straight. I have done nothing productive or useful, save those few times that I needed to shovel a bit of snow. I'll be back to school tomorrow, and I'll have a bit of work to do, since I've not even started writing the draft of my senior research paper that is due in only 2 days. Oh well, I'll get it done sometime. I will re-enter the world well-rested an satisfied with my two snow days for two feet of snow.
If I could reach my arm out to touch you, if I could look over to see your smile, that beautiful, radiant smile, if I could open my mouth and speak into your ear, if I could hear your voice, if I could know that your gentle eyes were on me, if I could feel your hand inside of mine, if I could feel you against me, if I could feel your heartbeat and hear you breathing, if only I could smell you every time I felt so down and out, so alone and so sad, then I'd be okay.
I think that I am a dreamer, but I'm not embarassed about it. I think that it is something to be proud of. Sometimes I have to wonder what the people who aren't dreamers do in their downtime. Maybe they don't have downtime. Maybe they don't want it. Maybe they can't handle it, because if they stopped and thought, they might realize that they aren't really living for anything. I'm glad I'm a dreamer. I think that one day I'll make my dreams come true. The real challenge will be doing the very same thing for someone else. Just keep dreaming.
Take hold of my hand, don't tremble. You can open your eyes when we reach the top. This is no ordinary flight of stairs, no ordinary trip, no ordinary gift. This is the last step. Open your eyes. Look down, see the little lights, the little people. Don't worry, I won't let you fall. Lay with me on our fluffy bed above the world. Look up at the pristine night sky. Only we can see the stars and moon. Tonight, they are reserved for you and I alone. Sink into me, drift off to sleep. I'll never let you go.
I want to walk out into the woods one night. I want to get lost in an endless hall of columns, I want to hide underneath their arms, outstretched. I want to hear the music as I lay there silently among everything living. If the moon shines through, it would surely smile upon me in my natural, peaceful slumber. When I woke, as dawn approached, I would ask the moon to hold back the sun and leave the earth in eternal darkness. This is where I would remain, laying among the underbrush. I would leave behind the burden of society.
If we were all children again, would we be innocent? Would we cry because we knew everything was going to be left behind as we grew out of everything that we once loved? Would we all stay in bed with the hope that nothing would change without us? Would we hate our parents because they don't really know everything, nor did they ever, nor will they ever? Would we be able to look them in the eye and pretend that we were just innocent, unknowing little beings? Would we still watch our cartoons, or try to turn the world around?
Nothing can ever truly heal your wounds, nor do you want it to. There is something strangely human about picking scabs. I don't think that people ever really want to heal. I think that it is more convenient to be injured. There is a certain power associated with limited disability, and it seems that people often choose to strive for it. Sympathy is just a form of submission that we are all guilty of. Though, those who are truly guilty are those who prey upon the sympathetic. That's really why we value sympathy so much. I feel bad for us.
I want some ham, damnit. I want a ham sandwich. I want some ham, damnit. I want a ham sandwich. I want some ham and guess what we did have but don't have now? That's right, kiddies... ham. Cheese Nips taste nothing like a ham sandwich. Cheese Nips are no substitute for a ham sandwich, but they will have to suffice. I want some ham and guess what we did have and still have now? That's right, kiddies... Cheese Nips. I want some ham, damnit. I want a ham sandwich. Ham sandwich in Korean is "ham sandwich." Jeong told me.
Soft spoken words untied our bind that I thought unbreakable. The pain you couldn't understand was unbearable, unthinkable guilt. A hatred for my own actions was to tear me apart. I left everything behind because I couldn't bear to put you, or me, through it all again and again. Indecision was your vice, decision proved to be mine. Someone should have taken us aside initially and pointed out that pointed flaw. It may have killed us, but I still stand, and I can only assume that you do too. It seems that most everything dies before it really lives.
Lay in a field of wheat and look up at the sky. Notice all the little lights, now concentrate on the one thats doing a little more than twinkling. Watch it get bigger and bigger, than hover above you. As every stalk around you bends down, you stand and smile. Reach your hands up and cry "Here I am! I'm ready, I've waited. Take me away from here." Slowly you begin to float upwards in a beam of beauitful blue light, and you can't help but think how strange it is - all those sci-fi writers even had the colors right.
How is life weighed? How do you know if a life was worth living, or if one is worth ending? How do you know whether a life lived has been a good one, or a bad one? How do you determine whether it is to be looked upon as successful or otherwise? If there were a list of people who led the best lives, what would the top few of them have in common? I wonder if god feels burden of command. I wonder if he knows all these answers. Maybe he doesn't, and that's why he never answers.
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