Secure Yourself

I'm carrying on a perpetual lie concerning my beliefs, and like so many things, it's tearing me apart. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I thought I could do this, but I can't.

I'm a good liar, but lying doesn't come easily to me. I want to be open and honest, but right now it's too terrifying. I'm afraid of rejection, and this is rejection of the worst kind because I've already rejected a part of myself.

What will it do to me if they reject me too?

Keeper Of My Heart

Since the beginning, I've been in pain. I wished to get rid of it, but no, the world is not a wish-granting factory.

Now all I'm feeling is fabricated rage. Rage that my heart has been compromised. That I'm making the same mistakes I've made before. But mostly rage that I stopped caring. That the not caring feels worse than the pain. I want to care, and pretending to be angry is the only way I've found to feel something again. It's not much, but it's more than nothing.

He doesn't want to hurt me, but he's an idiot if he thinks that I won't be hurt. He doesn't realize that he already has, because there's no such thing as 'no strings attached,' not for me. But strangely, I like the aching. It's a pleasure to be heartbroken by him. And if I'm going to be hurt anyway, I might as well choose him.

We share a place where we're not apart, but we're not together either. Sadly, a colon and right parenthesis don't reveal the sadness behind the smile. The lips forced upward, never reaching your eyes. You don't realize that when you say 'always' and I say 'okay,' I see a promise that I'm not sure you'll keep. After all, how can you if you never know you made it? Maybe you'll keep the promise anyway, but I can't expect that of you, and it hurts even though it shouldn't. No, you don't see that pain, always demanding to be felt.

You are like a book everyone should read, but I don't want to share you. I keep you to myself, as if that makes you mine. It's selfish, and I have no excuse other than that I'm selfish. I don't want to see a world without you, but I'm not going blind either. I'm saving the pain for a time when I need it.

We're only young once, and I want to be stupid someday, before it's too late. I want to ignore the consequences, but I can't. My every step is full of questions and worries, and my existentially fraught strolls through the cemetery don't allow for ignorance.

I could wax eloquent about the injustice of scrambled eggs being stereotyped as breakfast food, or the strange nature of architecture. I could comment on the inevitability of oblivion, that no matter how deeply we are loved (and it is better to be loved deeply rather than widely) we will all one day be forgotten. I could expound upon the existence of universe, and how it gravitates toward consciousness because it just wants to be noticed. But I won't, because even though I wish it all mattered, we already know that the world is not a wish-granting factory. And besides, this isn't meant to be a philosophical reflection. It's meant to be a eulogy.

Have you ever noticed that when you lose someone, they're the only person you want to talk to? I've never written a eulogy before, but I think I've realized something. The eulogies, the praises of the deceased, the words of attempted comfort- those are for the living. Honesty is for the dead. They deserve as much, don't you think?

I've never written a eulogy before. And this one isn't for you, it's for us. We're running out of time. Time screws everybody, and you and I are no exception. Just as Augustus Waters ended, so will our infinity end. In the middle of a sentence, just like life. Humans tend to leave their mark in the form of scars, a hidden reminder of the loved and the lost.

But love lasts as long as life does, and I'll carry these scars with me always.

Love's Recovery

You stare at the wall, listening to the same songs over and over and over, trying to find a solution for a problem that can't be solved, because you can feel some sort of distance growing between the two of you, and if you still cried you would cry yourself to sleep tonight.

But you don't shed tears for the inevitable anymore, only the unexpected. And this was entirely expected. He thought there was only one way to break your heart. He was wrong. Your heart was broken before you even gave it away, because you knew how this would end before it started.

It's not over yet. You know what you should do, but you don't want to because you want to hold on to every moment you can. And it's tearing you apart.

You thought he'd be the one to hurt you.

You were wrong.

Heartache For Everyone

Today I am 19 years old. Nothing feels much different, except that I can now legally sell tobacco. But in reality, today is just another day. I did the same things I do every day, motivated by free food and the satisfaction of rebellion. But I can do those things every day. So why should today be special? I can celebrate my existence every day, not just today.

Fourteen years ago, I turned 5 years old. That morning 2,977 people died. They should be here to celebrate their existence. Mine seems pretty insignificant.

Make It Easier

Every morning I wake up and drag myself out of bed for another day of work and school. I go to the same classes and read the same textbooks. I try to talk to the same people, although I often remain distant. I doze off during class because I never seem to get enough sleep. When I get home I waste time as efficiently as possible. This is my routine.

The routine can be comfortable. If I perform well in my classes I'll get good grades and gold stars and maybe a career where I can go to work every day to make a good paycheck and fall into another comfortable routine. I can continue to avoid social settings and it's okay because I have an excuse in that it's what I've always done. So few people have bothered to connect with me, and I've become comfortable with that. With wasting time on Netflix and with my nose in a book. Time well wasted, but still a part of the repetition I call life.

I've decided I don't want a routine. I don't want my life to turn into a repetitive, monotonous schedule, at the end of which I'm relieved for it to be over. But now I have a problem. I'm so used to this routine that I don't know how to break it.

History Of Us

I never expected you. You came into my life too slowly, and you were gone again before I had time to catch up.

If someone had told me my life would change because of you, I wouldn't have believed them.

I met you every week and we talked for hours. Time flew when I was with you. I was never worried about getting home.

If someone had told me how I'd feel when you were gone, I wouldn't have believed them.

When you left I cried myself to sleep. I thought I deserved to be happy, but your happiness came first.

If someone had told me you'd hurt me like this, I wouldn't have believed them.

I did my best not to think about you. My best wasn't good enough, but I still kept my mouth shut.

People told me that time would heal, and I didn't believe them. Until now.

Center Stage

I once went to a concert. A free concert by a band I didn't know much of. I'd heard a couple of their songs, but I only went because my friends were going.

The lead singer spoke. He told us about a mobile app for love. He said he didn't think love was supposed to be that way. And he asked if that's what love is in this century. And then he sang. His voice was so powerful that I swayed along, the bass so heavy that my skin vibrated with ever beat, the roar of the crowd consuming.

Two days later, I heard another man speak. He had a different kind of voice, quieter, more distant, but just as powerful. A different call to action, so unlike the first. But I didn't want to act.

Now I'm drowning in the words. I can't dance but the music is everywhere and I don't know what to think. I could dance with everyone else, but I stay out of the limelight because I've never been good at being the center of attention. It's too overwhelming. So instead I watch as everyone else stays afloat, and I'm still drowning.