Yeah, GREAT, she’s writing again… Apologies ahead of time.
There’s an echo in your walls; an imprint of color, a vast display of wear and tear. At first glance it seems it’s structure holds, but you’re flimsy at best.
You’ll soon enough throw on a new layer of that wine-tinted acrylic paint; put up your proudest images, neatly aligned in symmetrical frames. But I’ll still see the damage, masking remorse, despite your best front.
I walk your halls, slowly. Taking in every detail. Pinning it to memory. A maze of tarnished, bitter keepsakes sing to me to keep them safe, to bring about a day of cleanse and repair. But I don’t have the will, or wish, to do so.
If anything I’m slowly gaining the will to shake off the presence of understanding, to locate the back door to this man-made Hell, and burn it to the ground.
I’ve never been limited by reality. It makes an appearance here and there, but most of the time stays out of my way.
I’m no artist, and I’m no creator. I’m no judge, and I’m no savior. I run with what I’m given, and hope it’s enough gas to get me where I want to be. The problem is, never knowing quite where I want to be. I mind my lines, and burn my bridges, but the GPS is constantly stuck on the welcome page. Most of my life has been forwarded in one direction, duties. You study hard, you get good grades, you focus on what they’ve installed into your head is IMPORTANT. Then one day someone throws some rubbing alcohol into your wound; now it hurts like hell, but it’s finally clean. Someone tells you that focus and progress are fine and dandy, but when you reach your goal, what will you really have? Will you be happy? There are little things along the way that you can’t just pass by. And that’s when I realized it. I’m not living. I’m alive, obviously, but I’m not living. How damned cliche’ is that? I realized I’m so afraid to break the rules, so afraid to turn out like her, that I’m not living my own damn life. Wonderful how the mistakes of predecessors can completely terrify and constrict the life of one with so much opportunity, so much possibility. I am literally terrified to live my life.
“You’re not real”, yet you can still hurt me? I close my eyes and pretend you don’t exist. Just for a second. Because that’s all I can bare. And because you can’t just erase a person with pure will-power. Maybe tomorrow when we finally see each other again, and pretend like nothing ever happened, it will actually be like nothing ever happened. We can pretend it is how it used to be. But when there was never anything to start with, how is that even possible? I don’t know who you are. And you sure as hell don’t know me. And is it sad that I want to mend things for them? Not for you, not even for me. I think I like the despair that comes along with you. I feed off of the misery. After all, it’s why I am where I am, who I am, what I am. Maybe to you those words aren’t any different from each other. But to me they mean everything. Maybe I need this misery. Maybe I need you to be the enemy, so I don’t find one in the mirror. Maybe the one person who truly cared is dead. And it’s entirely possible that I’m, again, looking for mountains in an ant farm. Maybe it’s not you at all? Maybe it’s me. It’s my weakness and inability to control my fears and emotions about you that created this monster. And maybe I’m the one that needs fixing; not the past, not the future, not even you. Just do me one tiny favor. They’ve still got time, don’t destroy them too.
“I’M A FAKE! I’M A FAKE! I’M A FAKE!" Like this smile? It’s plastic.
You can buy one too. Trade it in for your tears.
I’m not just one person. I’m INFINITE. Try and stop me. Thoughts and emotions are tied to whichever shape I may mold into. Forever changing. Maybe I’m fake. Maybe I’m just real? I can’t be who you want me to be. Fuck, I can’t be who I want me to be. Isn’t that just beautiful? Yes, this is one of those pathetic ‘who am I’, 'where the hell am I going’, shity attempts to sort out my thoughts posted through a wonderful blog, the diary of the dramatic, attention seekers, teeny-boppers, and the desperate. But hopefully is something I can look back on as a glimpse into my mind at this one fragile moment in time. A Polaroid of thought, id you will. No matter how insane or ridiculous it may sound, there’s meaning in that right? Purpose. Beauty even. That’s all I’m after in life anyhow. You can laugh at every word I type here, pouring my heart out, disguised by the metaphors, masked behind the fingers I point. But you’re searching for something too. Aren’t we all?
I’ll never be limited byyou. You’ll make an appearance here and there, but most of the timeyou’ll stay out of my way.
Call me something bitter. Call me something strange.
I’m pinning it to memory, and to eye, and to skin;
the deepest I could sew it without any breaking bones.
If I could voice it under veins, then life could surely hold it.
Kept safe for just a while
But it’s only a name.
Keep it in my breath, hold it down, write it out.
Any means of claim, for it will surely fade.
I cannot feel forgotten. I’m reluctant, but aware.
The lie I wear is proper
And it’s only a name.
There’s so much more to life than these small, insignificant problems you create to give your life purpose. You’d dot your eyes, and cross your teeth, but without turning your effort outward, you’ll never find it. Speaking in fragile tongues is a habit we’ve yet to break, and seeing with fragile eyes is one we’ve yet to make. Would you just open yours; how can I show you you’re a promise worth fighting for?