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Yet another essay pulled out of my ass. This time more so than before. Out of every topic in the universe, politics is the only one I have not the slightest interest toward or opinion of. So, tonight I proved to myself that I can not only write my way out of a paper bag, but also out of a ziplock bag. It's a fairly decent essay too, especially considering the circumstances. I'll undoubtedly get an A, no surprise. I was worried for a little while, but I knew it would ultimately work out okay. Just needed words on paper.
Black velvet coats me now slicing open my skin in attempts to protect. Maybe we wanted this all along. This is all there will ever be; all we will ever know. Attempts to rectify pile up, but never the allotted chance. The greens of grass die alongside your departure from a life that never existed. Stories to fill the void will only go so far. Maybe words do die when spoken. Motivation seeps further and the pages get thicker. This chapter to life entices, but still I hide away. Turn the corner and run from all the faceless fake facades.
Love is a farce. True love is even more preposterous. Be alone. Just once. See what I live day to day. Stop bitching about your relationship. We don't want to hear it, we being the lonely masses. Live one day of my life. I am content, though sometimes I feel certain that I am even fooling myself. Ignorance is bliss, this is true. Ignorance is as hard to hold onto as innocence. With the loss of innocence comes the loss of ignorance. I want to be stupid. I know too much and I care too much. This is just ridiculous.
Part of me is numb again. Oblivious to the obvious lacking. Picture a child whose father went to the store for a pack of cigarettes and years later still has not returned. That is me. I am that child. Will it make sense if I say that I feel cold to death? It has lost its warmth, and maybe its enticement too. I'm almost indifferent to him being dead or alive. For some reason it does not matter. What is this? Who am I becoming? Where will my grief land, or level out? God, when will this all be over?
Solitude is no longer the balm yearned for. I have had my fill; I am sated. Give me her and give me life. Give me nothing and give me death. Maybe it's the same either way. Her glistening eyes, her French manicured nails, she never cared at all. A farce, love is the ultimate farce. Give me something to ease my turmoil, to quell the pain of each heartbeat. With her, I felt safe, and found. Protected from the cruelties that lay outside our bedroom doors at night awaiting the rising of the sun. I take it back; forgive me.
I could pretend to be happy. But what fun is that? People don't like happy stories as much as a good tragedy. I am a tragedy. Everything I write has tragedy, sadness and anger. Petals to the wind and they are gone. The air was calm until I created the storm. To my feet they fall. It was my heart continuously kicked and with one final trample, I am finished. There are things I will give up, changing life forever.
I love you. I love you not.
There aren't enough signs in the world to change this course. I hope.
Can you find me now? Have you been looking? Search behind the scenes, please. I am here; I am waiting; I am lonely; I am scared; I am nearing the end of the line. The line I have drawn for myself in the sand to send to the heavens my message of missing the one thing I never knew I needed. The time has come and the rescue should be in order, should be underway. Come out of hiding. This is as well as I can be. Please, replace his face; fill this empty lot. Come now, break my heart.
She may never live up to societies expectations. Words spew forth from her mouth in torrents of uncaring. But truthfully, she cares, she cares so very much so. For, she goes home each night and cries about what she should have said rather than what she did say. For how she should have acted rather than how she did. Socially inept but inwardly friendly. She has no set standards of her own, only those forced upon her. Those which she will never fulfill. She listens to the rain beating patterns similar to the tears falling on her own empty casket.
In the distance, the pendulum of life ticks. She is alone, growing bitter with each passing day. Her future is barren, her past wasn't much better.
She'll be an old maid.
But she laughs at the villagers and she pillages the outsiders. There is a complex hidden in the fields. Walls were constructed for restriction, of course.
She'll become a spinster.
They've always known it to be true. She never denied anything. She never confirmed. The girl was mute. Her expression was through written words, found upon her death. And they had wondered what it was she had been doing.
You can tell him that she did not exist, and he just might believe you. There is a time in his life during which his only remembrance is of her. She had a blinding beauty. So easily he was enraptured in her perfection. The sound of her voice soothed his troubled insides. She quickly became his world. She was all he saw, mute to the remainders. Infatuated with an unrequited love. Always unrequited. There is no hope for a boy who can try that hard, vying for only her time. But as I said, she may not have even existed.
Reach out and touch. Not allowed. There are no exceptions. She was bitter. He was perfect for her. His capacity was for filling the void in her overly empty life. His affections she had won. The prize remained out of reach. Then time moves in, decisions are made, and people are cut out of the picture. Soon she is alone, no more temptations to touch. Everyone has left her. She sits alone at her kitchen table, drinking red wine, watching jeopardy, with 21 cats circling her. Everyone she loves goes away. She spends her days trying to make them stay.
Maybe if you looked harder, you would find her. She is there; she is waiting; she is growing impatient. Hope falls like leaves from the tree. She picks up a leaf to place back on the bare branch.
I think you dropped this.
No reply. She is alone. You are searching. She hides away; she masquerades as a schoolgirl, coming out only when necessary. Oh, how she sits and waits. She exits classrooms slowly, as so to afford the opportunity to approach. Not yet approachable. Shards of grief still surround and still it rains above only her.
Where are you?
Before reading this, bear in mind that I have in fact experienced death on the most intimate of levels, therefore, what I am about to say cannot possibly be misconstrued as ignorance. I lay awake tonight, and the most random of thoughts happened upon my mind. Could unrequited love be worse than death? Think about it, and think hard. Maybe it's just me, having experienced the unrequited on such a deep level so many times, each time getting worse. Similar to death, I have no control over this. I cannot choose who dies nor can I choose who I love.
Here's a beer for him, a beer for her, and maybe with one more I can forget? Unlikely. Here's a shot for yesterday, one for tomorrow, and maybe the shot for today will let me forget? Someone said to me, when I said drinking doesn't make me forget, that drinking will only make us forget that which we wish to remember. Let me pretend real quick that I want to remember that he is dead and she is gone.
Damn, I still can't forget. They are imprinted. Forever lodged in these deep crevices of my mind.
Get out, damnit.
Immersed in the crowd, it is my face you see. It is me you choose to write your story about. Who am I but an object of your desire. Dote onto thee your devotion. Watch as I cast you away without explanation. Defy gravity by continuing to hold on as I know you will. Is it me you crave? Could it be but a mere fixation on my mind? My voice? My stark beauty? And who are you but a totem for me to notch. You are not special, they have lied. Time has filled your head with what dies.
The opening to my philosophy paper, after the introduction, it's 100 words taken from here. Now, I've read and reread the words, and if I were him, I personally would google a line to see if this paper wasn't lifted. If my name here were still my name then I wouldn't be so nervous. But if this came up, which it does (I've checked), he would have every reason to suspect plagiarism. Though, that month does clearly depict me. But, assuming he's read that, and maybe decided to read more, here I am telling him that those are my words.
I'm beginning to think most philosophers relied too heavily on this all-powerful, all-knowing entity. I stand in firm belief that we created God, willingly. To sustain life we need nourishment, to gain nourishment we need food, to acquire food we need money, to accrue money we need work. Thus, the purpose of life is to work in order to sustain life. It's a grim perspective, yes, which is why we created religion. Humankind needed somewhere more positive to focus their energies. Something more to live for. Philosophers take the easy route when they can't figure something out.
God did it.
I MUST do well on Tuesday's two tests. Why? Because I feel I have something to prove to myself. So, here I am wasting a Saturday doing this philosophy homework so I can get to studying. But, roadblock. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. I'm sitting there trying to figure out Why I couldn't figure him out. Then it hits me. He is yet another German philosopher. It took determination and will power to figure out Kant. I don't have it in me for this Hegel idiot. Sleepless nights and drunken stupors do not help matters. But damn, this shit just sucks.
Once in a great while the universe changes directions and acts in a manner that is
me rather than against me. First, my mom solves a yearlong riddle that puzzled me. Turns out, my dad only wants me to procreate. He isn't working against me, he is helping me realize my potential. Then there's the awful Hitler nightmare last night, but then the Simpson's mention Hitler. Weird, but gets weirder when they focus on Writers! Love it! Then American Dad, the alien becomes a [fake] professor! Perfection! And also, The Girl didn't go away despite my emotional moment. Keeper!
Descartes, Newton, Locke, Pascal, Spinoza, Kant, Leibniz, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Wittgenstein. Many of the world's greatest thinkers lived in solitude. Many people endowed with the gift of creativity were able to forge happiness out of their work and their work alone. I feel I am capable of this. I feel this is my destiny. Well, I know I am capable of this. If She goes away I will simply look the other way for it was not meant to be, despite how perfect it seems and feels. It is yet another letdown that I yet again anticipated. Golden intuition.
John Hicks. I did not study a single word of John Hicks. There were a few questions on him, and for each one I assigned him a different philosophy. I figured it was my best chances. John Hicks. Who the fuck is John Hicks? I still do not know, and to be honest, I don't want to know. John Hicks fucked me over. And what the fuck kind of philosopher name is John Hicks? How plain.
As far as the psychology test... I wouldn't be surprised if I get a hundred. Wishful thinking, maybe, but I did really quite well.
I won't be the caped villain. No, not this time. I won't be anything more than the superhero I am, masquerading as the unspoken one off in the corner. At the end of the day it is victory I am unclothed of as I made it through yet another day. Yet again, twenty-four hours lacking your presence and common sense says it'll happen again tomorrow. Common sense should also be why we believe the sun will rise tomorrow, without real evidence besides the fact that it rose yesterday and everyday before. But it may not rise and you may live.
I am in a much better place this year than I was last Thanksgiving. I handled myself, I controlled myself, and it was not hard. I was okay. I think I
okay. This time last year I had worn the same outfit three days in a row, I think without showering. The family pretended not to notice, I was insane. It hadn't even been a month without him. It may be that I was the only one aware, especially today. But I was normal, despite inwardly wanting to yell about not giving him a place setting.
He doesn't exist?
I peered from behind the veil of great literature. I hid behind Frost and Faulkner. Her beauty, I sought, it outshined all other beauty, written or not. She was my streak of silver in a mess of grey shaded black. If her eyes should happen to close, I cannot be sure I will continue in existence. Captivated and enamored, this is real and unrelenting. My soul can only hope these perfect girls go to heaven where a chance of reciprocation is plausible. But life does not surrender itself to happiness. Shadows and vowels and consonants, they conceal my hearts intentions.
She rose from the table and exited the building. I quickly followed in her path to catch the remaining fragrance left behind before it dissipates or gradually mixes with the surrounding air thereby polluting us all with her intoxicating remnants of scent molecules. My next move was to her table, to sit in the chair where only moments ago her body had occupied the very space. It was my bit of heaven found in this kingdom of the unrequited. She knows not of my love, my adoration, or needless devotion. Nor does she know the tears shed in her honor.
My heart bleeds in her absence. My world turns to dust when she shuts her eyes. There are some concepts left unknowable through outward communication. Sometimes the very art of language is left unable to convey certain abstractions. I just know that I need her, in any possible capacity. To talk to her. To stand near her. To breathe her in. To simply make her aware of my existence in this world we share.
Fuck that. Unrequited love is hard to express without getting overly melodramatic. I shall practice though. Death and longing will be my personal topics to perfect.
I move my hand along surfaces of which her skin had met. The image of French manicured nails tapping the table is implanted in my mind. Her every movement saved and cherished and replayed in her absence. So, always she is with me. Never does she know the energy doted onto her. The longings and the words made up to fill unnecessary voids. The world created around her, around the only one who matters. The idolized God of the moment. A moment is fleeting, but not this. I've sent worlds whirling on collision courses, yet still, she remains untouched. Untainted.
I am blank and void. An emptiness of mind overwhelms. The space in which to write grows whiter. Echoes of your memory leaves marks indicating missing words. I've obliterated reality and left is only me and one death cashed in too soon. Life is meaningless and contains nothing. I am devoid of vitality shooting only empty looks. My contents have been removed, discharged, transferred. You unburdened yourself of living. I am a container without contents. This terrible situation is a chasm of endless space. I'll see you in hell, the bottomless pit. I've no where else to go but up.
Where has the semester gone? Slipped between my fingers. Always, by time I grow adjusted and stop wishing for the end, the end will rear it's ugly head and tell me it will soon be over. I want it to last. I do not want to start again. The idea of a new 15 weeks stretched out before me, it's daunting. I registered for two psychology classes, in an attempt to make it less frightening. One of them isn't required, but I couldn't stand the idea of there being a psychology class that I'm not taking. I must know everything.
Last night was the best concert ever. Last night was The Best night of my life, by far. My Chemical Romance has outdone themselves once again. They were my favorite before this, but after playing Cancer last night, they won my devotion For Life. I was not expecting that. Need I mention that I flipped out? The entire place was made aware that I have had to deal with that. It was me and like three other people who screamed when he said it, but I, I flipped out. My only regret is not talking to the really hott girl.
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