Dear World,
You've taken 15 people out of my life. You've managed to strip the things I kept close to my heart. You did a really good job of that. You've disordered my emotions and peeled away at my soul. You've kept me sleep deprived and working late. I've nearly given up multiple times.
I heard that "Strength is nothing more than how well you hide the pain."
I resent that.
Strength is how well you are able to turn the pain into your advantage.
Pain doesn't need to be hidden, that only proves how afraid you are of being human.
I'm going to keep waking up in this hell just to spite and irritate you. I might get slower at getting up everyday, but you better damn well know I'll be standing no matter how empty you have made me. All that shit you played on me? Its what keeps pulling me up.
Sincerly,
Me
P.S. Fuck you.
You deserve more.
Hmm. I don't need more. I just need you.
You want a weak little sick girl?
No. I need one.
What's the use of one?
To remind me. Everyone needs to be loved and cared for.
You're a great guy, did you know that?
Right when you told me. I believed it.
I met a man waiting at the airport bus stop a week ago.
He paused before stepping through the doors.
Turning back to me, he had the soft, concerned look of a father who realized his mistakes as he raised his own child and lived with the guilt of reducing his family from 3 to 2 just so he could follow his own dreams.
"I'm not afraid to keep on living.
You shouldn't be either." he told me and boarded the vehicle.
I sat there, thinking those words over. I scrambled them, I rolled them. I tore them apart and put them back together. But what I was looking for was exactly how he gave it to me.
By that time, another man took a seat next to me. I think I probably missed a few of my buses by then. He was dressed well, with a clean face and smoothed hair. There were a few wrinkles near his eyes, but he didn't look that old. His shoes were dead black and coated with a light layer of dirt from travel. He had his coat hung over an arm and was speaking quietly on the phone in his other hand. From the tone and the way his brows furrowed so often I could guess it wasn't going well.
After he closed the call, his hand slumped into his lap defeated and he had the look of power and wealth but gave off the energy of someone crushed. I didn't know what I was thinking, but as he stood up to board I spoke aloud the words the previous man left for me. He paused in his path, the only acknowledgement that he heard me. He didn't turn around or respond but then continued up the steps, but he was seated next to a window and as the bus drove forward I could catch the glimmer of tears on his cheeks.
I think I understand what he meant now.
Why are people so nice to me?
How can they care that much for a stranger?
It makes me cry even more than when I actually get hurt.
[Insert picture here]
I'm not crazy. Really. I know that's what most actual crazy people tell them, but I have enough evidence to prove I am not so. Just because you don't know doesn't mean you can push that word on me.
They keep questioning me with the commons. Did you get in a fight with your friends? They're deaf to my answer I've been telling them the whole time. Are you pregnant? I don't think it's out of ignorance, but misunderstanding. Is everything OK at home? Things really are complicated to understand when they haven't been where I've been, seen what my eyes saw. It's not boyfriend problems, is it? Some things are just too much-but it might actually be too little. Hey. I'm an unhappy girl. Glad we have that established.
After a struggle with school authority they finally let me go, after all; that is what I've been pleading for them to let me do the past hour. I'm a little afraid to drive now. On the highways, I've been having these fantasies where my hands gradually turn the steering wheel to the left and the next lucky car is the winner and we both are thrown into an explosion of glittering lights. I kind of like that. To be part of an instantaneous beauty that only a few lucky to none get to see. Once in a lifetime.
But before I actually play it out I remember the orange butterfly I almost hit earlier. It was a fragile thing, but not lacking in charm. The tiny creature was fighting its way across the air and the way it struggled. That particular beat of its wings and its effort. I pressed on the brakes and the butterfly was sucked by the air flow up past the windshield and over. That wasn't the kind of beauty I wanted to create. Then I would think about the other driver. They never did have a say in my artful scheme and I would force myself to keep the car straight.
I do admit that I'm not stable-at least not anymore. But crazy? Never.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)