I'm a liar.
It's something I knew about myself from the beginning.
They say that it's easy to lie to others, and that it's even easier to lie to yourself.
But that's only if you're not aware of that fact that you're a liar in the first place.
I knew.
And I wish that I didn't.
I wish that I could swim in that sea of ambiguity, of living life two-dimensionally, where everything is black and white, right and wrong, and every action and feeling is genuine. Perhaps like an animal. Perhaps like a human. Like a person, I guess.
When did it start?
Ah, yes. When did it start. Perhaps when I was unaware. Perhaps when I became aware. Or maybe that, in itself, is another lie. Perhaps it's always been starting. Or maybe it never started in the first place.
Forever at the starting line.
Forever at the finish line.
Always the same.
No one will pull the trigger. The race will never begin.
You'll be sat, waiting there. Waiting.
And the race will never end.
Because it will never start.
I arrived.
My breaths froze in midair, puffing out in smalls clouds. It was a cold night; the weather said it would rain later tonight.
No.
I said that it would rain later tonight.
Haha
I laughed quietly to myself, looking up at the clock face. The architecture was as tacky as ever.
So this was it.
The sound of rushed breath, and the sound of the crunch of leaves alerted me to the other person.
Ah yes, the other player.
He sure didn't look too good. Pale and all.
"~Ah."
I sighed.
It's time I guess.
Either way,
I sure am sick of lying.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Anthony
It was junior high, third year, ninth grade. English class.
Romeo and Juliet. The one day I did the reading.
The desks in Mrs. Sherley's room were arranged in a half-circle facing the board, two rows deep. My partner, a mousey girl who sat on my right, was absent that day.
What was her name again? Kate? Katelyn? Something like that.
Oh well, it's not like it matters much anyways.
So, she was absent. The Kate girl. And there was someone in her spot. Another girl.
It wasn't necessarily that strange of an occurrence, but it was enough to make me feel a little off. Our seats were set, and even if they weren't, nobody in our class had the habit of changing their seating order. Moreover, though I wasn't a social butterfly, and constantly forgot people's faces, I was pretty sure this girl was not in my class. However, it was true that she looked familiar enough that I couldn't help but take multiple glances in her direction.
Mrs. Sherley walked into the room, clapped her hands, as was her habit, and the class started. I put the girl out of my mind. She was probably a transfer student, or someone visiting. It didn't matter either way. I most likely wouldn't be talking to her anyways.
Today was discussion day. Which was why the seats were set in a circular fashion. What this meant, was that the entire class period was dedicated to talking about various subjects in whatever reading we had recently finished (in this case, Romeo and Juliet). Everyone had to talk at least three times to get the full amount of points for the exercise.
In other words: it was a pain.
I kept quiet, inwardly rolling my eyes at nearly every comment and argument. Whether the whole story was about teenage hormones and stupidity, or a beautifully tragic romance, it didn't really matter to me. I never understood either of those things anyways. The sentimentalists arguing for the 'purity' of the story, and the logical crowd who curved them with the silliness of the characters actions both missed the point.
The point was, that they were dead.
They were dead, and they weren't coming back from that.
No matter what their family did after that, it couldn't justify or explain anything.
It's all over once you're dead.
Everything. Anything. Game over.
So what did it matter, anyways?
The grade didn't matter to me. I hadn't placed my value on a simple letter in a long time. So I kept quiet.
...
"But, if Romeo and Juliet were willing to go so far for one another, even if it started out as infatuation, couldn't you say that it changed into true love?"
The sentimentalists.
"Hmm, I don't think so. I mean, I doubt that Romeo wanted her to die just because he did, or that she would if she was dead. I mean, they didn't even put any thought about how the other would react in such a situation."
The logicists.
"Yeah, and what about their families? Would 'True Love' really mean dropping everything just for one person? I think they were just selfish."
A momentary pause. A few grunts of admission here and there.
Sentimentalists regaining their bearings. And-
"Or maybe it was the family that was selfish."
I jerked up. The voice was close, but unfamiliar.
It was the girl next to me.
"Their families didn't seem to really care much about either one of them. Or, even if they did, didn't really care enough to put any value on what they wanted, or who they were. They cared more about themselves and their old-age argument, and seemed to treat the both of them as more of a treasured object than a human being."
...no. You're wrong.
She was wrong.
"So, maybe it wasn't just their love for one another that drove them to suicide. Maybe it was their family. And if that's the case, I don't see how their feelings would matter in the end at all. Who cares if they were selfish? Their family was selfish as well. So what does it matter?"
"...It matters"
huh?
"Of course it matters. What are you, stupid?"
What?
"Even if their families were somewhat selfish and unwilling to understand, that can't justify killing yourself- those two things are not equal! Do you think that just because your family hurts you, it's okay to reject any possible feelings they might have for you, and treat them the same as a stranger? Or an object? Do you think it's okay to throw away your life for something as stupid and delusional as 'true love'? Or for any reason, not even bothering to think about the people left behind? There's no justification for that. There's not any pretty words for that either. It's just plain irresponsible! You can't just write off others wily-nily like that!"
Everyone in the class was staring at me. Mrs. Sherley was frozen, with her eyes wide open.
The girl stared at me, forehead tense.
Oh. Oh. It was me.
I was talking.
"Yes you can."
The girl stared at dead in the eye.
"You can definitely write others off. Most of them don't even deserve to be kept around. So what about a family's feelings? You'll eventually leave them anyways, if they don't leave you first. Why should you care about someone else, when they don't even care enough about you to warrant it?"
She spoke to me. Her whole body exuding dominance and control, facing me like an adult would a child. I see, so I was the child here.
I hated it.
I hated her.
I opened my mouth again to scream at her, when Mrs. Sherley suddenly unfroze and butted in. No doubt, worried about the sewage like atmosphere that had taken over the class. That I dispensed. That I was the fault of.
"Anthony, are you feeling alright? Do you need to go to the nurses office?"
Ah, yes, she knew. She knew about it. And that's why she was sickeningly sympathetic. I could smell the pity coming off of her in waves every time I appeared in front of her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to-
I shook my head.
"No, I don't feel that well, Mrs. Sherley. I might need to go home early. I'll stop by the nurses office on the way," I said.
I gathered together my books and backpack, the quiet, rustling noise of it permeating through the entire classroom. Without looking at anything, I walked my way to the door.
By some kind of cursed curiosity, I chanced a glance back at the girl who had stolen the place of my partner. I must have been wondering if she was smirking in victory, glad at my defeat. What was her facial expression like?
But she wasn't smirking. Nor did she look ashamed of her part in my outburst.
No, she was looking at me, confused and unsure. As though she was wondering what kind of species I was. Wait, no, that wasn't it- was it-,
But I didn't have time to make sure.
So I walked out the door.
I never saw her again.
Romeo and Juliet. The one day I did the reading.
The desks in Mrs. Sherley's room were arranged in a half-circle facing the board, two rows deep. My partner, a mousey girl who sat on my right, was absent that day.
What was her name again? Kate? Katelyn? Something like that.
Oh well, it's not like it matters much anyways.
So, she was absent. The Kate girl. And there was someone in her spot. Another girl.
It wasn't necessarily that strange of an occurrence, but it was enough to make me feel a little off. Our seats were set, and even if they weren't, nobody in our class had the habit of changing their seating order. Moreover, though I wasn't a social butterfly, and constantly forgot people's faces, I was pretty sure this girl was not in my class. However, it was true that she looked familiar enough that I couldn't help but take multiple glances in her direction.
Mrs. Sherley walked into the room, clapped her hands, as was her habit, and the class started. I put the girl out of my mind. She was probably a transfer student, or someone visiting. It didn't matter either way. I most likely wouldn't be talking to her anyways.
Today was discussion day. Which was why the seats were set in a circular fashion. What this meant, was that the entire class period was dedicated to talking about various subjects in whatever reading we had recently finished (in this case, Romeo and Juliet). Everyone had to talk at least three times to get the full amount of points for the exercise.
In other words: it was a pain.
I kept quiet, inwardly rolling my eyes at nearly every comment and argument. Whether the whole story was about teenage hormones and stupidity, or a beautifully tragic romance, it didn't really matter to me. I never understood either of those things anyways. The sentimentalists arguing for the 'purity' of the story, and the logical crowd who curved them with the silliness of the characters actions both missed the point.
The point was, that they were dead.
They were dead, and they weren't coming back from that.
No matter what their family did after that, it couldn't justify or explain anything.
It's all over once you're dead.
Everything. Anything. Game over.
So what did it matter, anyways?
The grade didn't matter to me. I hadn't placed my value on a simple letter in a long time. So I kept quiet.
...
"But, if Romeo and Juliet were willing to go so far for one another, even if it started out as infatuation, couldn't you say that it changed into true love?"
The sentimentalists.
"Hmm, I don't think so. I mean, I doubt that Romeo wanted her to die just because he did, or that she would if she was dead. I mean, they didn't even put any thought about how the other would react in such a situation."
The logicists.
"Yeah, and what about their families? Would 'True Love' really mean dropping everything just for one person? I think they were just selfish."
A momentary pause. A few grunts of admission here and there.
Sentimentalists regaining their bearings. And-
"Or maybe it was the family that was selfish."
I jerked up. The voice was close, but unfamiliar.
It was the girl next to me.
"Their families didn't seem to really care much about either one of them. Or, even if they did, didn't really care enough to put any value on what they wanted, or who they were. They cared more about themselves and their old-age argument, and seemed to treat the both of them as more of a treasured object than a human being."
...no. You're wrong.
She was wrong.
"So, maybe it wasn't just their love for one another that drove them to suicide. Maybe it was their family. And if that's the case, I don't see how their feelings would matter in the end at all. Who cares if they were selfish? Their family was selfish as well. So what does it matter?"
"...It matters"
huh?
"Of course it matters. What are you, stupid?"
What?
"Even if their families were somewhat selfish and unwilling to understand, that can't justify killing yourself- those two things are not equal! Do you think that just because your family hurts you, it's okay to reject any possible feelings they might have for you, and treat them the same as a stranger? Or an object? Do you think it's okay to throw away your life for something as stupid and delusional as 'true love'? Or for any reason, not even bothering to think about the people left behind? There's no justification for that. There's not any pretty words for that either. It's just plain irresponsible! You can't just write off others wily-nily like that!"
Everyone in the class was staring at me. Mrs. Sherley was frozen, with her eyes wide open.
The girl stared at me, forehead tense.
Oh. Oh. It was me.
I was talking.
"Yes you can."
The girl stared at dead in the eye.
"You can definitely write others off. Most of them don't even deserve to be kept around. So what about a family's feelings? You'll eventually leave them anyways, if they don't leave you first. Why should you care about someone else, when they don't even care enough about you to warrant it?"
She spoke to me. Her whole body exuding dominance and control, facing me like an adult would a child. I see, so I was the child here.
I hated it.
I hated her.
I opened my mouth again to scream at her, when Mrs. Sherley suddenly unfroze and butted in. No doubt, worried about the sewage like atmosphere that had taken over the class. That I dispensed. That I was the fault of.
"Anthony, are you feeling alright? Do you need to go to the nurses office?"
Ah, yes, she knew. She knew about it. And that's why she was sickeningly sympathetic. I could smell the pity coming off of her in waves every time I appeared in front of her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to-
I shook my head.
"No, I don't feel that well, Mrs. Sherley. I might need to go home early. I'll stop by the nurses office on the way," I said.
I gathered together my books and backpack, the quiet, rustling noise of it permeating through the entire classroom. Without looking at anything, I walked my way to the door.
By some kind of cursed curiosity, I chanced a glance back at the girl who had stolen the place of my partner. I must have been wondering if she was smirking in victory, glad at my defeat. What was her facial expression like?
But she wasn't smirking. Nor did she look ashamed of her part in my outburst.
No, she was looking at me, confused and unsure. As though she was wondering what kind of species I was. Wait, no, that wasn't it- was it-,
But I didn't have time to make sure.
So I walked out the door.
I never saw her again.
Sunday, September 16, 2018
Anthony
Giovanni's gone missing.
Ever since the other day, when Campanella stopped appearing even at the weird time he does. I let Giovanni outside, and he hasn't come back.
It's like he's looking for him.
But now I have to look for him, instead.
How come we're both living, yet chasing after something dead? I don't get it.
Ah.
Well, I guess I've been quiet about it for too long. I'll come open now. So, yes. Um. My brother.
He's dead.
Well, let's just say that when I was ten, he decided that it would be funner to hang himself than do homework. Or listen to my mom. Or- or, well, something.
I honestly have no idea. It's been years, and I still don't know.
I'll probably never know- actually I can't know. Because I'm not him. So it doesn't matter how much I try and rationalize it- I can't understand. The evidence doesn't even match the person anymore.
But it is weird. One day he was alive, and he even laughed at some dumb joke I made about a video game we played at the time. Then, the next day, when I got home from school, he was gone. At that moment, I just thought he was getting home late. But minutes, eventually turned into hours, and before I knew it, my parents were home, and the police were home, too. The time spent not knowing- hoping- questioning. It was like some sick nightmare. I thought it was just another day- no- it was just another day. That's what made it so wrong.
It wasn't raining, there was no major earthquake, zombies weren't littering the streets. It was just another sunny, sparsely cloudy day. I remember watching the neighbor kid playing on his bike from the park that I could see from the back window of my room. He always did that. It was normal.
They found him the day after- somewhere in the mountains. His backpack was at his feet, apparently. A hiker found him.
My brother used to fold paper airplanes all the time. He had an avid interest in aircraft, actually. There were models of different flying machines hanging from his ceiling. There were always paper airplanes on the floor- dining room, living room, anywhere. It annoyed my mother, who always had to pick them up. I guess she didn't have to do that anymore.
We used to play in the park behind the house a lot. Hide and seek, tag, other such stuff. Usually, it was just us. But, actually, I think I remember someone else. I never knew her name, but she played with us sometimes too. I didn't go out to the park after I was ten, so I never ended up learning it. It was probably something pretty, though. Something that would've fit her nature. I wish I knew it.
I don't know what I'm going on about, though.
I have to go look for Giovanni, now.
I can't let him disappear too.
Ever since the other day, when Campanella stopped appearing even at the weird time he does. I let Giovanni outside, and he hasn't come back.
It's like he's looking for him.
But now I have to look for him, instead.
How come we're both living, yet chasing after something dead? I don't get it.
Ah.
Well, I guess I've been quiet about it for too long. I'll come open now. So, yes. Um. My brother.
He's dead.
Well, let's just say that when I was ten, he decided that it would be funner to hang himself than do homework. Or listen to my mom. Or- or, well, something.
I honestly have no idea. It's been years, and I still don't know.
I'll probably never know- actually I can't know. Because I'm not him. So it doesn't matter how much I try and rationalize it- I can't understand. The evidence doesn't even match the person anymore.
But it is weird. One day he was alive, and he even laughed at some dumb joke I made about a video game we played at the time. Then, the next day, when I got home from school, he was gone. At that moment, I just thought he was getting home late. But minutes, eventually turned into hours, and before I knew it, my parents were home, and the police were home, too. The time spent not knowing- hoping- questioning. It was like some sick nightmare. I thought it was just another day- no- it was just another day. That's what made it so wrong.
It wasn't raining, there was no major earthquake, zombies weren't littering the streets. It was just another sunny, sparsely cloudy day. I remember watching the neighbor kid playing on his bike from the park that I could see from the back window of my room. He always did that. It was normal.
They found him the day after- somewhere in the mountains. His backpack was at his feet, apparently. A hiker found him.
My brother used to fold paper airplanes all the time. He had an avid interest in aircraft, actually. There were models of different flying machines hanging from his ceiling. There were always paper airplanes on the floor- dining room, living room, anywhere. It annoyed my mother, who always had to pick them up. I guess she didn't have to do that anymore.
We used to play in the park behind the house a lot. Hide and seek, tag, other such stuff. Usually, it was just us. But, actually, I think I remember someone else. I never knew her name, but she played with us sometimes too. I didn't go out to the park after I was ten, so I never ended up learning it. It was probably something pretty, though. Something that would've fit her nature. I wish I knew it.
I don't know what I'm going on about, though.
I have to go look for Giovanni, now.
I can't let him disappear too.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
June
I've lived in this room for a long time. I haven't left, not even to get a drink of water, unless it's night time. The reason being, of course- the unwelcome presence of that scum in human clothing. He's always here for some reason. Everything he does annoys me; watching sports TV at high volume, drinking early in the morning, served food on a silver platter by my mother, etc. Frankly, he just has to breathe to get me on edge.
I know why, of course.
It's because he's family.
"Family" is such a loaded term. Every time it's mentioned, whether it's in books, media, or just the neighbors talking next door, it always seems to represent something irreplaceable, something to be treasured. I don't get it. Because, see, even in a home that's filled with people that are related by blood, they don't necessarily know one another. And just because they're related, doesn't mean that they want to, either. Although, because they are in the same building does mean that they have to understand some semblance of the other person. Understanding doesn't equal love, however.
Haha, Love. Another loaded term.
I think I'll stop while I'm ahead.
The main point is: I wouldn't have to hate him if he was a stranger.
My life would be a lot easier then.
Honestly, although I live with my mother, I don't think I love her. I don't think she loves me, either. I'm just a necessary burden.
"The willingness to understand" is probably a good enough definition for what I might classify under "love". It's effort put into empathy.
The willingness is key, actually.
Even though I understand my mother and her intentions, I never actually wanted to understand them. Ever.
I was out of books to read.
So I came out of my room.
"Bryan," she was saying, "what if we had another one?"
I stopped, hidden in the hallway.
He grunted. An ambiguous reply.
"I know it's been hard on you, these past few years, being everywhere and anywhere-"
I peeked around the corner. She was leaning on him from the back.
"-It's been hard on me too, being here alone. I've been waiting for you this whole time, you know? It's not like I'm blaming you though, I understand why you left. After what happened, with your parents, too...Bryan?"
I saw him take a swig of something and sigh. The sports announcer on the TV was still blaring out unnecessary narration in the background.
"...Yeah, I guess it's been hard," he relented.
My legs were frozen. By now I had expected one of his usual violent retorts- smashing the glass on the floor, or screaming, or both. This was wrong.
She continued.
"...So, I've been thinking, since it's been so hard for the both us, that we should just give up and try again. We were both young and stupid back then. We didn't know how to be a family."
"mmm," he agreed, quietly.
"I still love you, Bryan."
Everything was still for a moment.
"Will you create a new family with me?"
Anchor baby.
Failed marriage.
Unsuccessful birth.
I didn't really care to ever have to understand these things.
Honestly.
What a pain.
I guess it's over now.
I know why, of course.
It's because he's family.
"Family" is such a loaded term. Every time it's mentioned, whether it's in books, media, or just the neighbors talking next door, it always seems to represent something irreplaceable, something to be treasured. I don't get it. Because, see, even in a home that's filled with people that are related by blood, they don't necessarily know one another. And just because they're related, doesn't mean that they want to, either. Although, because they are in the same building does mean that they have to understand some semblance of the other person. Understanding doesn't equal love, however.
Haha, Love. Another loaded term.
I think I'll stop while I'm ahead.
The main point is: I wouldn't have to hate him if he was a stranger.
My life would be a lot easier then.
Honestly, although I live with my mother, I don't think I love her. I don't think she loves me, either. I'm just a necessary burden.
"The willingness to understand" is probably a good enough definition for what I might classify under "love". It's effort put into empathy.
The willingness is key, actually.
Even though I understand my mother and her intentions, I never actually wanted to understand them. Ever.
I was out of books to read.
So I came out of my room.
"Bryan," she was saying, "what if we had another one?"
I stopped, hidden in the hallway.
He grunted. An ambiguous reply.
"I know it's been hard on you, these past few years, being everywhere and anywhere-"
I peeked around the corner. She was leaning on him from the back.
"-It's been hard on me too, being here alone. I've been waiting for you this whole time, you know? It's not like I'm blaming you though, I understand why you left. After what happened, with your parents, too...Bryan?"
I saw him take a swig of something and sigh. The sports announcer on the TV was still blaring out unnecessary narration in the background.
"...Yeah, I guess it's been hard," he relented.
My legs were frozen. By now I had expected one of his usual violent retorts- smashing the glass on the floor, or screaming, or both. This was wrong.
She continued.
"...So, I've been thinking, since it's been so hard for the both us, that we should just give up and try again. We were both young and stupid back then. We didn't know how to be a family."
"mmm," he agreed, quietly.
"I still love you, Bryan."
Everything was still for a moment.
"Will you create a new family with me?"
Anchor baby.
Failed marriage.
Unsuccessful birth.
I didn't really care to ever have to understand these things.
Honestly.
What a pain.
I guess it's over now.
Saturday, June 16, 2018
Anthony
I walked to the clock-tower today. Although it's a "clock tower", to call it such is somewhat of an insult to what you might call a "real" clock tower. It's tall, to be sure, but made of cheap materials that make you think it could fall over at any moment. Pieces of the support have already crumbled onto the nearby grass and sidewalk, reminding one of dandruff on a hermit old man. It sits in a park in a similar state. With only grass and trees, it can attract no children. It could've been able to supply picnic space, if it wasn't for the perpetually muddy ground, caused by overactive sprinklers. I remember that at one point, this park was the main attraction of the surrounding neighborhood before a newer, less dirty edition showed up on the east side. Now the only people who come here are unhappy dog-walkers, and the elusive bagpipers I can hear occasionally from my apartment.
I sat on a bench near the structure, and ate my lunch. The entrance to the spiral staircase leading up the inside of the tower was chained shut for safety measures. The landing at the top has no fence or such to keep one from falling off after all, and the city wanted to avoid lawsuits and such, I assume. The stairs were still visible from where I was sitting, though, and uncomfortable images of two young boys running up and down them appeared in my mind before I shook them away. It wasn't time for that.
In any case, my visit to the clock tower seemed to be pointless. There was nothing unusual about it; it was the same as I remembered. I finished my sandwich, and glanced about. So far nothing pointed towards Campanella's little weirdness about chimes and whatever. I might as well go back home, I figured, and checked my phone for the time: 12:34. In a moment of childish curiosity, I wondered if the time on my phone matched up with the time on the clock face. I squinted at the tower: 12:00 sharp. I watched it for a moment, but nothing on it was moving. It was stuck, I realized. A dog walker passed next to me on the grass, and I asked him about it.
"Oh, yeah, it's been stopped for what, a couple of years now? City won't fix it, doesn't want to pour money into anything but their own pockets. It's those in charge, I tell you, they're all corrupt, every last one of them. I mean, I heard that just this month, Mr. Fernigan-"
I managed to smile and nod, before twisting the topic back to what I was interested in.
"So, it's been stopped, right? How is it ringing every night then?"
"Huh? Ringing? It's stopped ringing, though. I live just a street over, and I haven't heard anything from this thing in a couple of years. Where've you been hearing this ringing, man?"
Huh? What? I was stumped.
"Oh, I thought it was from here, but I guess it must've been something else close to my house. Thanks anyways," I made an excuse on the fly.
The dog walker continued talking about his own life for several minutes before his dog got antsy and dragged him away to my relief.
I stared at the clock face. If it wasn't ringing every night, then where was that sound coming from? Or was it the clock-tower making the noise, but only with me able to hear it? I mean, I have a ghost cat, so I guess hearing an non-existent noise isn't too much stranger than that. It then occurred to me that maybe it wasn't the world that was weird, but perhaps my own mind. If it wasn't me then why was all these strange things happening with only me being able to experience them?
But I laughed it off. I have never been one to doubt my own perception of reality for very long.
Although reality has always felt very surreal since that day, reality is reality, and no one can change that, let alone me.
I walked home.
I sat on a bench near the structure, and ate my lunch. The entrance to the spiral staircase leading up the inside of the tower was chained shut for safety measures. The landing at the top has no fence or such to keep one from falling off after all, and the city wanted to avoid lawsuits and such, I assume. The stairs were still visible from where I was sitting, though, and uncomfortable images of two young boys running up and down them appeared in my mind before I shook them away. It wasn't time for that.
In any case, my visit to the clock tower seemed to be pointless. There was nothing unusual about it; it was the same as I remembered. I finished my sandwich, and glanced about. So far nothing pointed towards Campanella's little weirdness about chimes and whatever. I might as well go back home, I figured, and checked my phone for the time: 12:34. In a moment of childish curiosity, I wondered if the time on my phone matched up with the time on the clock face. I squinted at the tower: 12:00 sharp. I watched it for a moment, but nothing on it was moving. It was stuck, I realized. A dog walker passed next to me on the grass, and I asked him about it.
"Oh, yeah, it's been stopped for what, a couple of years now? City won't fix it, doesn't want to pour money into anything but their own pockets. It's those in charge, I tell you, they're all corrupt, every last one of them. I mean, I heard that just this month, Mr. Fernigan-"
I managed to smile and nod, before twisting the topic back to what I was interested in.
"So, it's been stopped, right? How is it ringing every night then?"
"Huh? Ringing? It's stopped ringing, though. I live just a street over, and I haven't heard anything from this thing in a couple of years. Where've you been hearing this ringing, man?"
Huh? What? I was stumped.
"Oh, I thought it was from here, but I guess it must've been something else close to my house. Thanks anyways," I made an excuse on the fly.
The dog walker continued talking about his own life for several minutes before his dog got antsy and dragged him away to my relief.
I stared at the clock face. If it wasn't ringing every night, then where was that sound coming from? Or was it the clock-tower making the noise, but only with me able to hear it? I mean, I have a ghost cat, so I guess hearing an non-existent noise isn't too much stranger than that. It then occurred to me that maybe it wasn't the world that was weird, but perhaps my own mind. If it wasn't me then why was all these strange things happening with only me being able to experience them?
But I laughed it off. I have never been one to doubt my own perception of reality for very long.
Although reality has always felt very surreal since that day, reality is reality, and no one can change that, let alone me.
I walked home.
Friday, December 22, 2017
Shadows
I was very imaginative as a child; a gift I am glad I have not kept as an adult. When my mother had tucked me in and the lights had gone off, I would stare at the ceiling before going to sleep. In the darkness of the room, and the bits of light left in my eyes, I would see thousands of different shapes dancing across the ceiling. I saw dogs padding across a field, baskets floating down rivers filled with ducks, people talking to one another, or looking off into the distance, and even a marching band parade. I could change the shapes to fit whatever vision I wanted, a game that I played nearly every night. It was mostly enjoyable.
The problem came when I began to see things that I didn't want to. Visions of people staring back at me, crouched in the corner of the bedroom. My mind began to wander outside the confounds of 2d characters on a simple ceiling background and found itself creating 3d ones in the room around me. From a shadow created from a bookshelf, I would see a small girl, watching me. I ended up spending many nights in my mothers bed, peering fearfully around me.
Not many of the visions lasted more than once. By the time I turned seven years old, I simply stopped engaging my mind in that direction. I no longer saw the scenes that plagued my mind at night. Except for one.
A tall, dark figure standing near the doorway. Never moving, just watching, with absolutely no distinguishable features of any kind. Even when my family moved houses, the figure followed me; showing up near the entrance to whatever room I slept in. I was absolutely terrified of this figure. The only way I was able to sleep at night was to not look at it and pretend it didn't exist. I didn't have a name for the figure at first, but at some point I decided that it was death, my personal death, waiting to take me to the other side. I never knew when it would inch from the corner of the room to my bedside to take me away. But it never did move.
During my early adolescence, I forgot this figure existed. After some tumultuous experiences and relationships within my circle of people, I didn't have time to pay attention to a childhood nightmarish fantasy. It wasn't until I was nineteen that I recognized it again, stoic in the middle of the room. But, strangely, I wasn't terrified this time. It was always there, an absolute truth in the midst of life's ephemeral lies. Something I could hang onto as things fell apart, an anchor to keep me guided. I knew that even if I was entirely alone in the world, stuck in a dumpster in some degenerate alleyway, that death would be there, waiting to take me away from it all. The medicine for the ills of living.
I watch for it every night before I fall asleep. As it statically creeps closer and closer every time the sun goes down. I am comforted by it, just as much as I am repulsed. It is what it is. And there's nothing more than that.
The problem came when I began to see things that I didn't want to. Visions of people staring back at me, crouched in the corner of the bedroom. My mind began to wander outside the confounds of 2d characters on a simple ceiling background and found itself creating 3d ones in the room around me. From a shadow created from a bookshelf, I would see a small girl, watching me. I ended up spending many nights in my mothers bed, peering fearfully around me.
Not many of the visions lasted more than once. By the time I turned seven years old, I simply stopped engaging my mind in that direction. I no longer saw the scenes that plagued my mind at night. Except for one.
A tall, dark figure standing near the doorway. Never moving, just watching, with absolutely no distinguishable features of any kind. Even when my family moved houses, the figure followed me; showing up near the entrance to whatever room I slept in. I was absolutely terrified of this figure. The only way I was able to sleep at night was to not look at it and pretend it didn't exist. I didn't have a name for the figure at first, but at some point I decided that it was death, my personal death, waiting to take me to the other side. I never knew when it would inch from the corner of the room to my bedside to take me away. But it never did move.
During my early adolescence, I forgot this figure existed. After some tumultuous experiences and relationships within my circle of people, I didn't have time to pay attention to a childhood nightmarish fantasy. It wasn't until I was nineteen that I recognized it again, stoic in the middle of the room. But, strangely, I wasn't terrified this time. It was always there, an absolute truth in the midst of life's ephemeral lies. Something I could hang onto as things fell apart, an anchor to keep me guided. I knew that even if I was entirely alone in the world, stuck in a dumpster in some degenerate alleyway, that death would be there, waiting to take me away from it all. The medicine for the ills of living.
I watch for it every night before I fall asleep. As it statically creeps closer and closer every time the sun goes down. I am comforted by it, just as much as I am repulsed. It is what it is. And there's nothing more than that.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
June
He's back.
disgusting.
Myfather.
The man who got my mother pregnant.
The stupid bitch is, of course, overflowing with joy.
She doesn't even see a reason to acknowledge me anymore. Not that she ever did in the first place.
I was just a link. A broken one, yet the only one left.
He's just lazing around, drinking beer and smoking pot, leering at the neighbors daughter.
He won't even look at me.
Well, yeah.
Let's just ignore things that are a nuisance for you, shall we?
After all, that's how you've lived your whole life so far, why stop now?
From what I've heard here and there, he's only here because he ran out of funds for his "home business". I bet they ran out on cigs and prostitutes.
Hah.
This is stupid.
disgusting.
My
The man who got my mother pregnant.
The stupid bitch is, of course, overflowing with joy.
She doesn't even see a reason to acknowledge me anymore. Not that she ever did in the first place.
I was just a link. A broken one, yet the only one left.
He's just lazing around, drinking beer and smoking pot, leering at the neighbors daughter.
He won't even look at me.
Well, yeah.
Let's just ignore things that are a nuisance for you, shall we?
After all, that's how you've lived your whole life so far, why stop now?
From what I've heard here and there, he's only here because he ran out of funds for his "home business". I bet they ran out on cigs and prostitutes.
Hah.
This is stupid.
That retarded cat hasn't even shown up.
What the hell is it doing?
Slacking on the job?
I've waited this long for something to happen. I can't stand it anymore.
I'm sick of her sitting in my room, staring at the empty goldfish bowl every time he happens to go out.
I guess even she knows what he's doing.
I mean, yeah, it's all normal.
It's just, I mean...
Weren't you supposed to save me?
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Anthony
When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a superhero.
In my seven year old brain, it was the only thing worth being. For hours, I would sneak-read the marvel comics my older brother had collected over the years.
Older brother? Oh...right.
It's not as though I especially love life, but...
"It's time you woke up..." a sobbing voice told me, gripping my hand.
Who? Who?
I'm sure he was like that too. At least at one point. Wanting to be a superhero. To be right.
So, why? No matter how hard I tried to understand, it didn't matter.
Wanting to be a superhero...that desire hasn't changed after all these years; if anything, it's grown stronger.
But perhaps, the motivation has changed.
I just never want to feel that helpless ever again.
bzzt. bzzt.
My eyes snapped open. Snatching the phone that was about to fall off the edge of the bed, I hastily turned off the alarm.
I stared at the cellular device in my hand before shaking myself out my reverie. My head was pounding with an oncoming headache.
What a sickening dream I had just had.
In my seven year old brain, it was the only thing worth being. For hours, I would sneak-read the marvel comics my older brother had collected over the years.
Older brother? Oh...right.
It's not as though I especially love life, but...
"It's time you woke up..." a sobbing voice told me, gripping my hand.
Who? Who?
I'm sure he was like that too. At least at one point. Wanting to be a superhero. To be right.
So, why? No matter how hard I tried to understand, it didn't matter.
Wanting to be a superhero...that desire hasn't changed after all these years; if anything, it's grown stronger.
But perhaps, the motivation has changed.
I just never want to feel that helpless ever again.
bzzt. bzzt.
My eyes snapped open. Snatching the phone that was about to fall off the edge of the bed, I hastily turned off the alarm.
I stared at the cellular device in my hand before shaking myself out my reverie. My head was pounding with an oncoming headache.
What a sickening dream I had just had.
Monday, November 2, 2015
June
I've been having nightmares.
They're nothing big, really. I'm up somewhere really high, looking out some sort-of arch at the night sky. An airplane flies by, the sound echoing in my ears unnaturally loud as though I had never really listened to an airplane before. And then the city lights down below suddenly blend together like a dissatisfied artist wiped his hand across his landscape in anger. I always wake up in a cold sweat. It's extremely real.
...I think they started when the cat disappeared. That was a few weeks ago; he just suddenly stopped coming over. The few days before then I noticed that when that blasted clock tower woke me up at 3 am, he would shimmer really brightly; practically lit up the whole room, and then disappear. When I say "disappear", I don't mean that he just went back to his typical "invisible" state, I mean that the meager shining reflection of the moon he let off would disappear, that the weight at the foot of my bed would be gone, and nothing would be left there except for the darkness of the room. It always creeped me out, and I was relieved when he returned the next night, except when the same thing happened. Eventually, he just stopped coming back at all.
I'm not worried, I mean, I am, but...Maybe it's gone for good? You hear about them going to the after life in movies and stuff, after all. It's already been a year, hasn't it, since I wrote in here? I guess I've gotten pretty used to having him around, probably too much, really. There's hardly any stability in life, but there's even less in death. When you're alive, you could be gone at any time, but you plan for the future and you are there in the present. But when you're dead, you don't even have a future. You're already gone, but no one can tell where you go after your already gone. At least you can tell the living.
Rectangles in the ground, 6 inches deep.
They're nothing big, really. I'm up somewhere really high, looking out some sort-of arch at the night sky. An airplane flies by, the sound echoing in my ears unnaturally loud as though I had never really listened to an airplane before. And then the city lights down below suddenly blend together like a dissatisfied artist wiped his hand across his landscape in anger. I always wake up in a cold sweat. It's extremely real.
...I think they started when the cat disappeared. That was a few weeks ago; he just suddenly stopped coming over. The few days before then I noticed that when that blasted clock tower woke me up at 3 am, he would shimmer really brightly; practically lit up the whole room, and then disappear. When I say "disappear", I don't mean that he just went back to his typical "invisible" state, I mean that the meager shining reflection of the moon he let off would disappear, that the weight at the foot of my bed would be gone, and nothing would be left there except for the darkness of the room. It always creeped me out, and I was relieved when he returned the next night, except when the same thing happened. Eventually, he just stopped coming back at all.
I'm not worried, I mean, I am, but...Maybe it's gone for good? You hear about them going to the after life in movies and stuff, after all. It's already been a year, hasn't it, since I wrote in here? I guess I've gotten pretty used to having him around, probably too much, really. There's hardly any stability in life, but there's even less in death. When you're alive, you could be gone at any time, but you plan for the future and you are there in the present. But when you're dead, you don't even have a future. You're already gone, but no one can tell where you go after your already gone. At least you can tell the living.
Rectangles in the ground, 6 inches deep.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Anthony
There's a smallish clock-tower next to where I live. It's pasty white, landing straight in the middle of a field that has the pitiable excuse of a park to keep it there. I go on walks there every once in a while to avoid the stress of my daily life, not that I have much of an excuse of one. Of course, I go there at night to avoid the people, and the curious looks they give me. Maybe if I had a dog, or something, I would have more of an "excuse" to go on a walk by myself. But I already have enough on my plate with Giovanni, and my apartment doesn't allow dogs anyways. It allows cats, strangely enough, however. I have a hunch it's because the land-lady is a lover of them. Her name's Loraine, and she's fond of orange juice, which is the first thing you find out about her, as she lugs a can of it with her everywhere. She's a nice land-lady to have, loose but strict at the same time on the rules. She does have a judgemental side, however, that makes me avoid her.
But about the clock tower.
It rings every night at exactly midnight. To be exact, it rings every three hours before midnight, where it stops for the night. It used to ring all through the night too, until the neighborhood complained of losing sleep, for which I am grateful. The other night, Campanella was on my desk (as I could tell from the mewling and the things moving from his irritated swinging tail) demanding to be let out. I'm pretty sure the thing can walk through walls, but he still demands me to let him out by opening the door. Who knows why. Maybe because he wants to annoy me. Well, he's succeeded. Anyways, I was doing my best to ignore him when midnight struck, and the clock-tower started ringing from far away, and he lit up, like a Christmas tree; the cat I mean. I was able to really see him for the first time after he had died; all white and shining like the reflection of light off of tinsel. It took me aback. After midnight had passed, however, he was the same-old invisible though. The same thing has happened the past 3 nights since, and I've reasoned that the reason I've never noticed him do that before was because he always made me let him outside beforehand. I've been wondering if the clock tower has anything to do with this, or if it's just the time. I'm pretty sure the time Campanella died was not midnight on the clock. Maybe this is just one of those things that happen without an explanation. Who knows. But I think I'll go check out the clock-tower later this week.
I've also been having nightmares since then.
But about the clock tower.
It rings every night at exactly midnight. To be exact, it rings every three hours before midnight, where it stops for the night. It used to ring all through the night too, until the neighborhood complained of losing sleep, for which I am grateful. The other night, Campanella was on my desk (as I could tell from the mewling and the things moving from his irritated swinging tail) demanding to be let out. I'm pretty sure the thing can walk through walls, but he still demands me to let him out by opening the door. Who knows why. Maybe because he wants to annoy me. Well, he's succeeded. Anyways, I was doing my best to ignore him when midnight struck, and the clock-tower started ringing from far away, and he lit up, like a Christmas tree; the cat I mean. I was able to really see him for the first time after he had died; all white and shining like the reflection of light off of tinsel. It took me aback. After midnight had passed, however, he was the same-old invisible though. The same thing has happened the past 3 nights since, and I've reasoned that the reason I've never noticed him do that before was because he always made me let him outside beforehand. I've been wondering if the clock tower has anything to do with this, or if it's just the time. I'm pretty sure the time Campanella died was not midnight on the clock. Maybe this is just one of those things that happen without an explanation. Who knows. But I think I'll go check out the clock-tower later this week.
I've also been having nightmares since then.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
June
I've always hated cats.
Their "high-stead" behavior has always grated on my nerves. They slink around like rats, acting cutsie for random people to give them food, and then abandon them and move on again. I swear they're all laughing at us behind our backs.
When I was a little girl I had not yet awakened to my knowledge of my hatred of them. I innocently approached the cranky neighbor lady Loraine's cat "Lacie" to give it a pet. The animal jumped on my seven year old head and deeply scratched my cheek into 3 sections. Not only did I get hurt, but Loraine was right there in her yard, reading her newspaper in a purple hamock, drinking her orange juice. She just stared at me indignantly, without coming over to help.
If there's something I hate more than cats, it's the people who love them.
But, fast-forwarding, this cat just won't leave me alone. I'm talking about the invisible animal thing that I was writing about in my last entry(was it already several months ago?). It stole my goldfish, remember? I didn't know what it was at first, but I've decided that it's a cat. It's been creeping into my room(I'm not sure how, since I close the window, and there's nowhere else it could have gotten in, maybe it goes through the walls?), and curling up with me when I'm sleeping. You can't tell it's there though, except for the weight, and the way the fabric is flattened down. It's not completely invisible, however. It shimmers sometimes if you catch it in direct sunlight(really indirectly though). I've tried to drive it out by throwing pillows at it, and dancing like a madman in my room to scare it, but it's persistent. I've pretty much given up by now. The pillows just go through it, anyways. I wonder what it's doing here. I hope it's not sucking my soul, or anything freaky like that, but I digress.
I find it in my room most mornings, but it always leaves by evening. Since I never really leave my room anymore, I've been tracking down the dates I find it, and the time it leaves on those dates. This has been going on in this yellow notebook, where I had pretty much given up keeping a diary in except for that one entry two months ago. Sorry. Here's a few entries from the beginning of November:
Date: time:
11/1 9:12 am
11/2 8:57 am
11/4 9:32 am
11/7 noon
11/8 1:32 am
11/14 7:47 am
Conclusion: they have no pattern whatsoever.
Conclusion: I have no idea what the heck this cat is doing here.
Question: What am I supposed to do in a situation like this?
Their "high-stead" behavior has always grated on my nerves. They slink around like rats, acting cutsie for random people to give them food, and then abandon them and move on again. I swear they're all laughing at us behind our backs.
When I was a little girl I had not yet awakened to my knowledge of my hatred of them. I innocently approached the cranky neighbor lady Loraine's cat "Lacie" to give it a pet. The animal jumped on my seven year old head and deeply scratched my cheek into 3 sections. Not only did I get hurt, but Loraine was right there in her yard, reading her newspaper in a purple hamock, drinking her orange juice. She just stared at me indignantly, without coming over to help.
If there's something I hate more than cats, it's the people who love them.
But, fast-forwarding, this cat just won't leave me alone. I'm talking about the invisible animal thing that I was writing about in my last entry(was it already several months ago?). It stole my goldfish, remember? I didn't know what it was at first, but I've decided that it's a cat. It's been creeping into my room(I'm not sure how, since I close the window, and there's nowhere else it could have gotten in, maybe it goes through the walls?), and curling up with me when I'm sleeping. You can't tell it's there though, except for the weight, and the way the fabric is flattened down. It's not completely invisible, however. It shimmers sometimes if you catch it in direct sunlight(really indirectly though). I've tried to drive it out by throwing pillows at it, and dancing like a madman in my room to scare it, but it's persistent. I've pretty much given up by now. The pillows just go through it, anyways. I wonder what it's doing here. I hope it's not sucking my soul, or anything freaky like that, but I digress.
I find it in my room most mornings, but it always leaves by evening. Since I never really leave my room anymore, I've been tracking down the dates I find it, and the time it leaves on those dates. This has been going on in this yellow notebook, where I had pretty much given up keeping a diary in except for that one entry two months ago. Sorry. Here's a few entries from the beginning of November:
Date: time:
11/1 9:12 am
11/2 8:57 am
11/4 9:32 am
11/7 noon
11/8 1:32 am
11/14 7:47 am
Conclusion: they have no pattern whatsoever.
Conclusion: I have no idea what the heck this cat is doing here.
Question: What am I supposed to do in a situation like this?
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Anthony
It was a Thursday in April. I remember because I had taken a glance at the calendar before I had went to bed and thought of how I was born on a Thursday. Not in April, obviously; June. But I remember thinking that. So I know it was a Thursday. But I don't know which one it was.
I had lost track of the days, and the date, and even my sense of time was withering away. I am usually stuck in a vortex of nothingness, and there are times when I have even felt like I have lost myself in the abyss there. It was three in the morning when I thought to glance at the clock, and like a ghost I decided to pull the covers over my head. I could smell the odor of my own sweaty laundry covering the floor, and the film of rot in the air from the dirty dishes. Stale chip crumbs crunched under my bare feet, and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth; I just collapsed from exhaustion, and something else, onto my bed. I breathed in the scent of the musty green sheets, and felt the filth of my life hover over me in the darkness.
I was a few minutes into dozing when Giovanni jumped on my bed, simultaneously snuggling next to me and waking me at the same time. I fetched my hand out of my covers and gave him a scratch on the head as he purred. And then I heard from my deep underwater ears a scratch on the door. Grumbling, I climbed my way out of my sheets, and navigated through the dark to the back door. I turned the handle of the unlocked door, and opened it a slit, expecting Campanella to walk through with his tail all proud and prancing in the air. After a moment of seeing nothing, I gasped and swung the door open to see who was there playing tricks on me at three in the morning. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, but with the door entirely embracing the thick blanket of darkness and the slightly rustling plum tree to my left, I could see absolutely no one. My confusion rose, and with it, my fear, and I was left with my hand stuck cold to the door knob, unable to move. My eyes swung back and forth for any movement, and my ears pitched into the night for a single sound. But my eyes found it first, sitting at my feet. The sliver of moon came out from the clouds, and I stared at the thing below me. It was a sketch, an outline, a reflection of moonlight on an invisible body. I watched it stare back at me, as though introducing itself once again to me as what it was. The plum tree rustled in my ears; how many days ago had I buried the cat in it's roots? My head instantly soared to the clouds.
But introductions were over, and Campanella moved swiftly and silently into the open doorway.
I had lost track of the days, and the date, and even my sense of time was withering away. I am usually stuck in a vortex of nothingness, and there are times when I have even felt like I have lost myself in the abyss there. It was three in the morning when I thought to glance at the clock, and like a ghost I decided to pull the covers over my head. I could smell the odor of my own sweaty laundry covering the floor, and the film of rot in the air from the dirty dishes. Stale chip crumbs crunched under my bare feet, and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth; I just collapsed from exhaustion, and something else, onto my bed. I breathed in the scent of the musty green sheets, and felt the filth of my life hover over me in the darkness.
I was a few minutes into dozing when Giovanni jumped on my bed, simultaneously snuggling next to me and waking me at the same time. I fetched my hand out of my covers and gave him a scratch on the head as he purred. And then I heard from my deep underwater ears a scratch on the door. Grumbling, I climbed my way out of my sheets, and navigated through the dark to the back door. I turned the handle of the unlocked door, and opened it a slit, expecting Campanella to walk through with his tail all proud and prancing in the air. After a moment of seeing nothing, I gasped and swung the door open to see who was there playing tricks on me at three in the morning. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, but with the door entirely embracing the thick blanket of darkness and the slightly rustling plum tree to my left, I could see absolutely no one. My confusion rose, and with it, my fear, and I was left with my hand stuck cold to the door knob, unable to move. My eyes swung back and forth for any movement, and my ears pitched into the night for a single sound. But my eyes found it first, sitting at my feet. The sliver of moon came out from the clouds, and I stared at the thing below me. It was a sketch, an outline, a reflection of moonlight on an invisible body. I watched it stare back at me, as though introducing itself once again to me as what it was. The plum tree rustled in my ears; how many days ago had I buried the cat in it's roots? My head instantly soared to the clouds.
But introductions were over, and Campanella moved swiftly and silently into the open doorway.
Friday, August 29, 2014
June
My name is June.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.
But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.
So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.
But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.
"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."
Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.
But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.
Geez, I sound like a soap opera.
Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.
This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.
So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.
And realized the fish was gone.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.
But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.
So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.
But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.
"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."
Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.
But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.
Geez, I sound like a soap opera.
Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.
This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.
So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.
And realized the fish was gone.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Anthony
Cats are a pain to take care of.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.
When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.
"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.
This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.
"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.
"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."
"They aren't plants."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."
"Animals that don't bathe?"
"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"
a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.
"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.
There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.
At least. That is what I think.
So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.
Besides. I don't hate cats.
Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?
Dead, no less.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.
When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.
"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.
This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.
"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.
"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."
"They aren't plants."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."
"Animals that don't bathe?"
"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"
a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.
"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.
There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.
At least. That is what I think.
So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.
Besides. I don't hate cats.
Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?
Dead, no less.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Doorbell
January 2, 2014
Wednesday
Dear Diary,
It's been about 4 months since the car crash. My leg is still wrapped in this blue cast that itches like crazy. Today I had a cold, so I stayed home while the family went to visit the relatives in the valley. I've not been doing much all day except sniffing and sniveling with this stupid faucet nose. There's a skyscraper tower of tissues on the computer desk, where I've been watching this stupid show for the past 3 hours. Ugh, what was it called? I forget. Anyways, it was dumb.
I've told mom about it before, but she says its impossible. I haven't been able to remember much before the car crash, but I could swear I saw something when I was still half-conscious lying on the asphalt. It was tall and black, and it was staring at me, though I couldn't see its face. I don't know why I say 'it', because it was obviously someone, but it just didn't give me the feeling that this person was someone to call a person. I'd forgotten about it til' now, because of everything that's happened. But I started remembering these past 2 weeks, because I keep having this same dream. The 'thing' or whoever, is outside the door of our house while I'm in my bed sleeping, waiting and waiting for me. It never does anything; it just waits for me. I don't know why that scares me so much.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.
I...think I just saw something. I'm a little freaked out, while writing this. I hate being home alone.
Oh, the doorbell rang. I wonder if they're home with groceries or something. I'll go get it.
Wednesday
Dear Diary,
It's been about 4 months since the car crash. My leg is still wrapped in this blue cast that itches like crazy. Today I had a cold, so I stayed home while the family went to visit the relatives in the valley. I've not been doing much all day except sniffing and sniveling with this stupid faucet nose. There's a skyscraper tower of tissues on the computer desk, where I've been watching this stupid show for the past 3 hours. Ugh, what was it called? I forget. Anyways, it was dumb.
I've told mom about it before, but she says its impossible. I haven't been able to remember much before the car crash, but I could swear I saw something when I was still half-conscious lying on the asphalt. It was tall and black, and it was staring at me, though I couldn't see its face. I don't know why I say 'it', because it was obviously someone, but it just didn't give me the feeling that this person was someone to call a person. I'd forgotten about it til' now, because of everything that's happened. But I started remembering these past 2 weeks, because I keep having this same dream. The 'thing' or whoever, is outside the door of our house while I'm in my bed sleeping, waiting and waiting for me. It never does anything; it just waits for me. I don't know why that scares me so much.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.
I...think I just saw something. I'm a little freaked out, while writing this. I hate being home alone.
Oh, the doorbell rang. I wonder if they're home with groceries or something. I'll go get it.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
They Feed on Life
Ah, I would like to tell this.
last night I woke up in the middle of the night to a dull sensation of pain in my left arm. In the dark I peered over my blankets to see what appeared to be a rotund white monster gnawing on my flesh. For some reason I wasn't scared at all, and I heard the gnawing sounds coming out of the corner of it's mouth. I remained indifferent to the whole thing. When I woke up in the morning the monster had gone, and I had difficulty lifting my arm which had gone numb throughout the night. I was dully surprised to notice that there were no bite marks or flesh wounds at all. I knew for a fact that it hadn't been a dream, but for some reason I wasn't scared at all, nor did I care. It felt like I was under water, and I was caught in the apathetic part of mind.
The next night was much the same. As were the nights for the next month. Each morning I woke up with my arm numb, but looking much the same; with no marks or blood. For some reason, I never cared that each morning it would take longer and longer to get the feeling back in my arm again. I never told anyone about this experience, and never felt the drive to. My life was the same outside of this strange experience every night, although my friends often commented that I never said much and joked about how it felt a little unnerving to be around me.
Two months after this continued happening, they stopped hanging out with me, and even went out of their way to avoid me.
At the time it was winter, and my arm had come to the point that the numbness wouldn't go away until late in the afternoon. A scarce group of students had begun bullying me; kicking and dragging my body across the cement behind a small storage building near the school when the hours were out. They hated me immensely because I never screamed out, nor gave any grimaces to pain. They wanted me to scream at any cost, and at one point desperately set my hair on fire. But I couldn't even react to that, and one of the girls got scared and put it out by dumping a pail of gutter water over me. The truth is, I couldn't feel any of the pain. It didn't hurt. When they were kicking me, the numbness spread over my entire body to the point that it felt like it was someone else's. Through my apathetic mind a slow, dull fear began to spread, pushing it's way from my subconscious to conscious.
A few nights ago I woke up to the gnashing sounds of the monster as it was sitting on my bed. My entire arm was in its mouth, and it was sucking on it like a lollipop. I noticed it was a lot larger than before. At the time when I first saw it, it had been the size of a beach ball. But now it was the size of a small boulder, and I could see the flesh of its loose skin hanging over the side of my bed. It noticed me looking at it, and it stared back with its large yellow eyes, smiling with its pointy teeth encircling my arm. I fainted back into sleep. I dreamed I was drowning in a cold ocean in the middle of nowhere.
I'm scared. I'm really scared. Because I know what it's doing now. Please someone help me. I started spitting up blood yesterday, and I can hardly move any of my limbs. My mother put me in the hospital, and they all say I'll get better. But I know I won't. I won't. Because it's coming again tonight, and it won't stop until it's eaten all of me. I'm scared, I'm really scared.
Please someone kill me already.
last night I woke up in the middle of the night to a dull sensation of pain in my left arm. In the dark I peered over my blankets to see what appeared to be a rotund white monster gnawing on my flesh. For some reason I wasn't scared at all, and I heard the gnawing sounds coming out of the corner of it's mouth. I remained indifferent to the whole thing. When I woke up in the morning the monster had gone, and I had difficulty lifting my arm which had gone numb throughout the night. I was dully surprised to notice that there were no bite marks or flesh wounds at all. I knew for a fact that it hadn't been a dream, but for some reason I wasn't scared at all, nor did I care. It felt like I was under water, and I was caught in the apathetic part of mind.
The next night was much the same. As were the nights for the next month. Each morning I woke up with my arm numb, but looking much the same; with no marks or blood. For some reason, I never cared that each morning it would take longer and longer to get the feeling back in my arm again. I never told anyone about this experience, and never felt the drive to. My life was the same outside of this strange experience every night, although my friends often commented that I never said much and joked about how it felt a little unnerving to be around me.
Two months after this continued happening, they stopped hanging out with me, and even went out of their way to avoid me.
At the time it was winter, and my arm had come to the point that the numbness wouldn't go away until late in the afternoon. A scarce group of students had begun bullying me; kicking and dragging my body across the cement behind a small storage building near the school when the hours were out. They hated me immensely because I never screamed out, nor gave any grimaces to pain. They wanted me to scream at any cost, and at one point desperately set my hair on fire. But I couldn't even react to that, and one of the girls got scared and put it out by dumping a pail of gutter water over me. The truth is, I couldn't feel any of the pain. It didn't hurt. When they were kicking me, the numbness spread over my entire body to the point that it felt like it was someone else's. Through my apathetic mind a slow, dull fear began to spread, pushing it's way from my subconscious to conscious.
A few nights ago I woke up to the gnashing sounds of the monster as it was sitting on my bed. My entire arm was in its mouth, and it was sucking on it like a lollipop. I noticed it was a lot larger than before. At the time when I first saw it, it had been the size of a beach ball. But now it was the size of a small boulder, and I could see the flesh of its loose skin hanging over the side of my bed. It noticed me looking at it, and it stared back with its large yellow eyes, smiling with its pointy teeth encircling my arm. I fainted back into sleep. I dreamed I was drowning in a cold ocean in the middle of nowhere.
I'm scared. I'm really scared. Because I know what it's doing now. Please someone help me. I started spitting up blood yesterday, and I can hardly move any of my limbs. My mother put me in the hospital, and they all say I'll get better. But I know I won't. I won't. Because it's coming again tonight, and it won't stop until it's eaten all of me. I'm scared, I'm really scared.
Please someone kill me already.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Fireworks
Fireworks
by whatever
to the music of HANA-BI
Human-made
by Pyromaniacs.
For the brief moment
I am alight
I am loved,
I am watched,
I am the world.
I don't realize my own existence,
for I am of the non-living.
In the explosion,
I am lost.
as I soar through the blackness,
I extend my invisible hand to the stars.
They have patterned the flower beforehand,
therefore I am nothing.
But may I alter my shape through all my will,
could I feel any gratification
by what they don't notice?
And therefore, I shoot
with the song of all humanity.
In this brief life like a falling star,
to show your eyes my colors.
For the moment I am loved,
I beam, I shine, I cry
to be defined in seconds,
to disappear to smoke.
Withering in the season,
autumn turns flowers to dust.
Allowing one blossoming hope,
for my sparks
to fall in your hands.
by whatever
to the music of HANA-BI
Human-made
by Pyromaniacs.
For the brief moment
I am alight
I am loved,
I am watched,
I am the world.
I don't realize my own existence,
for I am of the non-living.
In the explosion,
I am lost.
as I soar through the blackness,
I extend my invisible hand to the stars.
They have patterned the flower beforehand,
therefore I am nothing.
But may I alter my shape through all my will,
could I feel any gratification
by what they don't notice?
And therefore, I shoot
with the song of all humanity.
In this brief life like a falling star,
to show your eyes my colors.
For the moment I am loved,
I beam, I shine, I cry
to be defined in seconds,
to disappear to smoke.
Withering in the season,
autumn turns flowers to dust.
Allowing one blossoming hope,
for my sparks
to fall in your hands.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Skeleton Graveyard
Dear Death,
I met your friend.
It was late at night, and I decided to pass through the graveyard. There was this rumor at my school where this kid had thought he had seen some kind of 'creature' walking through there. I wanted to check it out and see if it was real. I had never really believed in the supernatural.
Now that I think about it, my cat and some of the dogs in the neighborhood had been missing.
I shoved open the creaky wooden gate and slipped inside, keeping my eyes peeled. At first, I saw nothing. But as everything quieted down to just my breathing, I saw another being sitting on a nearby gravestone, chewing something. As I got closer, I smelled something rancid like rotting meat. I got suddenly scared, so I started to back away, but my foot crunched on a twig. The skeleton looked up at me from his meal. I felt paralyzed as he hobbled his way over to me and placed a cold, wet, bloody bone hand on my cheek. That was the first time I had met my best friend.
I snuck out every night to see him in the graveyards. He could never leave the graveyards, and he enjoyed my company. We had so many conversations, about my family, my life, and the things I wanted to be. He never talked about himself, but I would notice sometimes when I was talking about my family, that he would get a sad look his eyes. Well, not that he had much of eyes, but you could tell by the way of his head posture how he felt. I talked to him out loud, but he communicated through actions. I had once brought a note pad, thinking he could write on it, but when I handed it to him, his hands, like they had bone arthritis, would not do the things he wanted. So we remained this way. It was a happy time.
It was only three days ago, while I was sitting in my boring math class, that I realized I loved him.
I'm going to tell him tonight.
........
See, over there! He's waiting for me!
What's that shiny thing he's holding?
........
Why am I in a concrete box?
I met your friend.
It was late at night, and I decided to pass through the graveyard. There was this rumor at my school where this kid had thought he had seen some kind of 'creature' walking through there. I wanted to check it out and see if it was real. I had never really believed in the supernatural.
Now that I think about it, my cat and some of the dogs in the neighborhood had been missing.
I shoved open the creaky wooden gate and slipped inside, keeping my eyes peeled. At first, I saw nothing. But as everything quieted down to just my breathing, I saw another being sitting on a nearby gravestone, chewing something. As I got closer, I smelled something rancid like rotting meat. I got suddenly scared, so I started to back away, but my foot crunched on a twig. The skeleton looked up at me from his meal. I felt paralyzed as he hobbled his way over to me and placed a cold, wet, bloody bone hand on my cheek. That was the first time I had met my best friend.
I snuck out every night to see him in the graveyards. He could never leave the graveyards, and he enjoyed my company. We had so many conversations, about my family, my life, and the things I wanted to be. He never talked about himself, but I would notice sometimes when I was talking about my family, that he would get a sad look his eyes. Well, not that he had much of eyes, but you could tell by the way of his head posture how he felt. I talked to him out loud, but he communicated through actions. I had once brought a note pad, thinking he could write on it, but when I handed it to him, his hands, like they had bone arthritis, would not do the things he wanted. So we remained this way. It was a happy time.
It was only three days ago, while I was sitting in my boring math class, that I realized I loved him.
I'm going to tell him tonight.
........
See, over there! He's waiting for me!
What's that shiny thing he's holding?
........
Why am I in a concrete box?
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Questionnaire
Dear Death,
I've been writing letters to you lately. But I have a few questions to ask.
Who are you?
Are you even a person?
Where do you go after you die?
Why do people die?
Why do people live?
What is the purpose of dying?
What is the purpose of living?
Where is the meaning?
Where is the meaning in my life?
Will you receive this letter?
Where is my uncle who passed away?
Why was I put here?
Why is your color black?
What is my future?
Why do I love you?
Who am I?
I've been writing letters to you lately. But I have a few questions to ask.
Who are you?
Are you even a person?
Where do you go after you die?
Why do people die?
Why do people live?
What is the purpose of dying?
What is the purpose of living?
Where is the meaning?
Where is the meaning in my life?
Will you receive this letter?
Where is my uncle who passed away?
Why was I put here?
Why is your color black?
What is my future?
Why do I love you?
Who am I?
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