I saw a bird get hit by a car today. It tried to fly under the machine’s chassis. So graceful as it went in and so mangled once it came out. Snapped wings and confusion. A metaphor could be spun, but why bother tampering with perfection?
There’s not much point in thinking about the end. Yet, as humans, it crosses our minds and some people have a lot harder of a time digesting it. We want so hard to imagine it and see it how we need to. Whether it’s just a long journey’s well-deserved finale or a cliff-hanger that will never be rectified. The honest truth of it is that we can’t see how the end will be. If we’ll just be another chapter or the final one, which is beautiful. It’s amazing how we will continue on assuming we won’t be the end of the line when looming over our heads will always be that chance. Perhaps we’re the first generation to experience this phenomena. A population of people who know that they have absolutely no chance of knowing what may or may not happen to them.
I guess it scares me more than anything, than anyone, to consider the thought of my happy ending never being allowed to fully bloom.
I’ve been sitting here and thinking that when I’m sleeping I’m not dreaming. And for someone like me that’s a bothersome thing. No, not just bothersome, but troublesome. It’s a mess of desire spilled out by the fire that I cannot attain. I know this will leave a stain. But despite all I try and the wish that I make, my dreams will always be fake.
Warning: The following story contains acts of what could be called uncomfortably violent scenarios. If you’re overly sensitive, you’ve been warned. If not, I hope you enjoy. I wrote this a few months ago.
The voices in her head came from the beyond. She was not crazy, not in the slightest, but haunted by people she had tried to forget. What was not accounted for was the fact that there is no such thing as a fresh start when ghosts roam freely. These apparitions sought to drive the poor girl to an early grave just to spite her, and they were getting closer and closer to achieving this. No matter what medications were prescribed, no matter how padded the room, they would always break through. Why? Of course, because a sickness of the mind is vastly different in both creation and treatment than the presence of a phantasm.
Sometimes, it’s easy to forget the world around you. There are these moments of time when everything feels just perfect and, no matter what happens, it will remain that way. Swollen happiness can lead to some terrifying revelations, though. During this time, your words feel concrete—nay, invincible. It is at these moments of absolute bliss that you are most vulnerable to constructing your own demise. Or, perhaps, the person on the other end of the conversation is in the middle of experiencing their own swollen happiness and they’re about to drop a bomb on you.
Either way, when you’re covered up in bed later that night, as you think over what a wonderful day it has been, this ticking mindbomb is about to go off. Once it sounds that final alarm, the chemicals in your body giving you that one last middle-finger before going off, you’re not able to retreat. You are consumed by it, this anger and frustration, but you have no way to release it. You’re stuck on a dingy with an elephant, desperately looking for land to dump it, but you’re in the middle of the ocean.
You try to bottle it up, cover it up; believing it will all come to an end soon enough, but it’s pointless. Tomorrow you will awaken with a headache, but you will have forgotten your anger. That is until you fully come to and have a look around at the wasteland that is your thought process. It hits harder than it initially did because, for a moment, you had actually considered that nothing went wrong and it was all a dream. It wasn’t all a dream. None of it was a dream.
He walked amongst the ruins. It felt to him a dream, an impossibility, as he trudged forward through the muck and the grime, past shattered homes and abandoned hopes. A memory flashed through his mind and he dropped to a knee just in front of a blue two-story home. Its front door had fallen to the floor long ago, and the tarp once strapped to the roof had torn free. His eyes were a haze. He stared, for a moment, blankly, up from his knelt position. All at once, it rushed over him. Consumed him. A wave of emotions drowning him. His face contorted, his eyes slammed shut, his breathing sporadic and distraught. A spot of rain pocked against his broad shoulders, and he raised to his feet.
Little June is watching, viewing all these things, she sits and thinks and wishes for wings down upon her knees. She’s asking for some sympathy, an ode to all that was lost. She’s wondering just what it was that got her here and what it was she cost; the barren, bruised, and aggregate of all the souls they lost. The endless problems that they crossed. Furthermore, the depths at which she’s reaching can be chalked up to what they’re preaching, and their teaching is creeping within every tradition. Perdition, a belief drawn into remission with each and every omission. Little June is hatching, cracking from within a shell she made out of memories and hollow evenings and she’s terrified of these dreams in which a god sings from atop trees begging her to crawl on legs, legs she doesn’t have and never will like a mutilated butterfly at a windowsill
Alas when it all came to an end, I was uncertain whether or not I should feel proud or ashamed but I was relieved, freed, released, from all the evil I had to endure, all the things I hated and what made miserable had finally gone, for now. The judgement of some is still yet to come. No matter if I have risen or fallen, the curtain closes and will wait, no matter how eager, until I call for it to open again.
[Burn in hell, this past semester]
I can’t wait to watch you age. Yes, I know that’s an awful thing to say but it’s the undeniable truth. I would wish that we would never age if I knew that it could be possible but I know this will never come to fruition, so allow me to indulge myself on thoughts of future things. We’re so very far away from all of this but I know the first time you spot a gray hair will be your momentary undoing, though something so terrible will also be so beautiful. And when we reach that point in life where our inner wear and tear begin to show upon our outter selves, I will continue to love you. No matter what this life throws at us, whether you’re young or old, as time marches on, you’ll always be one form or another of lovely.