Status

Forsaken Humanity

Kindled in the darkness of her fears and pain, enclosed in shields and scars, sick was her heart and inflamed by false love.

Hid the sun, and gathered the clouds in the hazy cold atmosphere. Up was the sky, littered in the grey winter clouds, scattered along the planet like a blanket of ice thrown on fire. And down was the fire, flames of humanity glowing in races of rich and poor, black and white, women and men. Down were the streets, screaming in mute, cold lives. Down, she stood, and further she looked and there she saw him. Bare skinned, only for a filthy pair of trousers, stained in the dark crimson of human flames. Naked and cold was his body, yet despite that hadn’t he shaken. Red and bleeding, still unhealed, and rich in disease, her heart still pulsed in sympathy and love. Love for humanity, love for peace, love that was rare in a warred universe yet was everything that held it still. She swept her jackets off her shoulders and down her back, unconscious of the cold and carefree to the dizziness rising in the back of her skull. Over his’ she pushed them, and pressed them, and smiled. Paralyzed for a moment by the cold of winter, she swept back, bruised her ankles, regained her balance, and rose again. Agonized but stiff, he slipped the sleeves off his muscles, shoved the warmth off his scars, and smiled. On hers he dropped them, and her scars he covered, with frozen flesh and a dying pulse, and only when his bare skin encountered hers did she see the shivers of his bones and the pale dead color of his skin. And so she swept back her jacket, this time to bury it in the snow-fed ground, and forge fires out of its fragments and dead branches and rocks. Dark and deep but warm and healing, like her heart, rose the flames. The jacket was a small piece of cloth, the snow a cooling catalyst, but the fire burned. She quivered again, this time falling into the depth of his chest. He held her, smooth were his cold muscles, and warm was the darkness is eyes. He never lost his balance, but pulled himself slowly by the fire, her heart pounding against his’, and their warmth the drastic element that awakened the fire and terminated the cold.

Enduring, rose humanity over fate, and resilient, survived their hearts in defiance of their scars.

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Status

Where Has She Gone

Life was tough, and the days rolled miserable and quiet.

I was sick. Not with disease, but psychological unease and exhaustion. I remember my lungs felt tight beneath my bones, the air thick and dense, my nerves wild and shrieking ache to the very edge of my brain. I had to rid my thoughts of all the extra weight, I had to write it down somewhere, get it out of my head. And I started writing, and writing until I ran out of papers; nevertheless, my mind never cleared, and the weights never lightened. I needed someone to listen, someone to understand and give me the talk I needed. So I created this blog. And I wrote and wrote until I was eventually heard.

I finally got what I wanted, a simple comment that brightened up the darkness and lightened up the masses. It was her. She said I was a wonderful, articulate writer, and that I had a beautiful and heartbreaking way of expressing myself. I felt adrenaline chilling my veins, and a fresh, delighting pinch in my skin that moment I read through her words, like the feeling you get when you jump into the pool on a hot day.

Anonymous

I never saw her or met her in person, yet she always brought delight home with her relieving words. Where did she go? She’d left without leaving a trace. And I realize now that she’d been more than an audience to me. Or perhaps that my ‘audience’ meant much more to me than I thought. They’re rather my family than an audience. An anonymous family.

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Jackson Whittemore’s Way

I decided to get rid of all the deadly things in my life. And you were about the deadliest.
Jackson Whittemore

Huxley
Got rid of you because you were a liar, Hux. Your empty promises were a pain in the gut. You said a lot, and did nothing. You said you care, but you never did, Huxley, did you? No. It’s not your fault, though. I shouldn’t have expected a lot from you, I started it all. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, Huxley.

Calvin
The second deadliest thing in my life. Got rid of you, Calvin, because everything you liked about me was yourself. The only interest you had in me was my desire to be with you. That’s selfish, Calvin. But thanks to you, Cal, I’m much a better person now. You made me hate myself. Look at everything I deeply like and think, ‘Man, that’s stupid’. Because, Cal, you made your opinions the facts. Used a sarcastic tone and convincing vocabulary and turned me against myself. Thanks, Calvin.

The only trigger I needed to get rid of them was the certainty about how meaningless I had been to them. I don’t blame them. They’re avowed adults, I’m just a reckless teenager.

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The Life Of The Dead: Dead Inside

It’s like I’m dead inside.

Nothing matters to me anymore. Nothing, no one, not even myself. I don’t matter to me.

The things that used to make me happy before mean nothing now. The things that made me sad no longer bother my thinking. The people who once haunted my mind, heart, and life, they don’t exist in my brain. Everything doesn’t matter. Nothing feels real, nothing feels lasting. And literally, no one does.

I feel distant from the people I have ever loved and cared about. Like time is separating me from the rest of the world. Nothing feels familiar, nothing feels important. Nothing, and no one.

I knew it was going to happen. I knew this was going to happen. That one day, they’re going to look at me and find another boy than theirs. They’ll beg for the love they’re used to, but they won’t find a heart. This heart they kept tearing would be ashes of their making. No one would be glad to see it, test it, or stand to it. It would be already torn, already dead. And if someone tries to block its way, it’ll destroy them, like they never mattered. I wish they had noticed before it’s too late, because as much hurt they’ve built in me, as much as I never liked seeing them get hurt. In any other situation, I would laugh at how foolish my words are, how stupidly ironic they look, how wrong and cold they feel. How can I still care and love when, each time, they show me that I was never too important to them? I think it is the same reason why they haven’t once understood me. Too ironic to be understood.
I guess now I’m too dead, rather than too ironic.

Life doesn’t matter when you live like the dead. When your life is already dead.

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The Irony

Too ironic to be understood.

Perhaps the reason why people, and even I, cannot deal with my personality is because I’m too ironic. Too ironic for them to make sense of my logic, and for me to understand myself. I can’t deal with myself, let alone strangers. And the other way round, no one can understand and accept the way my brain works. The way I think. Probably because it’s not right, it’s not good. And I can’t hope to find someone someday who will somehow get along with my weird personality because I don’t believe it. I can’t trust life enough to bless me with such a thing. I can only try. Try to understand myself, and love it. Perhaps I’m the only one who could. And I deeply, secretly hope not.

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Lone Wolf, Angry Boy

There’s something inside me burning all the time. I can’t help but explode under pressure. I can’t control it, and I can’t stop it. It controls me. It controls everything. It controls my body, my tongue, my everything. And I can’t just hide it all the time. I can’t stay calm when a volcano inside me is about to erupt, not for long. I eventually have to lose my temper and react aggressively. Although I do let the volcano erupt, it doesn’t. Instead, it erupts inside out. All I do is say harsh unmeant words and usually hit anything and anyone around me. I’m too subconsciously reacting that I might break the windows, but I’m too consciously thinking that I never am able to explode and spit everything hurting me deep in the gut. Too ironic to be understood. The damage never heals, and the volcano never erupts. I keep hurting myself and everyone else: myself thinking that they will never understand, and everyone literally proving my theory. Because they never understand, not even the best of them. Then they blame me, and I blame myself. Because if I was just to die, their lives wouldn’t have been this bad. They blame me and they misunderstand me and they hurt me and then I’m the evil. Because I lost my temper, because I didn’t control myself. If they were just to know how much I carry inside, they would hate me, and yet they will never understand, and they will never appreciate. But why am I the only one who understands every one of them, I understand their pain. And I appreciate it and respect it, and I support them both emotionally and physically. Yet none of them ever tries to understand me. Maybe that is the reason I have no friends. Because no one can relate to me, and no one likes to.

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The Demon Within

You were meant to be a demon.

I always knew I was different. I’m worse. I never knew I was too different, too worse, too evil.

I’m not good. I’m not a good son, I’m not a good sibling, I’m not a good friend, I’m not a good boy; I can’t be.

I thought it was kind of normal. I thought nightmares about bloody corpses, about people I love being killed by me, about people killing others I love was normal. I thought they were just nightmares.. but they were dreams. Because demons don’t get nightmares, humans do. Demons hurt, hate, kill.

I thought I was just a teenager, an angry one. I thought when I dreamt about blood and dead bodies, when I have evil thoughts, when I hate too severely, when I feel the joy in my evil wishes to kill and ruin, when I’m bloodlust, it was just overthinking. It wasn’t. It was me, the real me. The demon.

I killed him in one of my dreams, I killed her nine times in another. I kill them all twice daily, by existing. I hurt her, I killed her, I betrayed her, and she still loves me, chooses me, wants me. Because she never knew. She never thinks I might be the one to hurt her so much, to betray her too easily. She never knows she shouldn’t trust me. There will come a time when she gets to know everything, when she stops loving me, because she is too hurt by me.

If everybody ever knows everything about me, the complete truth, they will all hate me, they will all leave. Nobody likes demons. Nobody will like me. Everyone will fear my evil; fear that slowly shifts to hatred. I know someday will come, when everyone will leave. When I’m isolated, abandoned. I don’t blame them. I don’t like demons either, I don’t like me. I never did.