Yes, this is a rant post.
Yes, this is an emo post.
Yes, this is an emo rant post.
Scroll to the bottom for some interesting facts if you wish to skip this.
And mostly not due to thoughtlessness or apathy or selfishness, more so because she has the short term attention span of a wet sponge. Her brain is already quite full as it is, and she hardly needs anything more. Like a wet sponge. No need for more water. And she sometimes has moments where she seems to have forgotten her spine.
She needs to find her spine again, lost somehow between an immovable force and a hurricane.
She also needs to find herself again, lost somehow between trying to please everyone and trying to not be the person she used to be. Trying to be someone other than the pathetic loser she used to be, but maybe still is. She will never know.
And while brains and spine are fine things to have, somehow being deprived of both are a result of over-enthusiastic efforts to finally be someone else besides who she was.
17 magazine says I will meet a tough guy on June 23, and forget an old crush, and be love-happy.
17 magazine never knew the crippling doubt that creeps into the mind at the oddest of times and results in a horrifying and vivid recollection of flaws, mistakes and humiliation.
17 magazine certainly never knew about the moments where she stares at herself at the mirror and hates what she sees.
' All the world is a stage and the men and women merely players.'
And somehow screaming seems to make it worse; it makes the ache worse, it makes the shame worse.
She wants something so badly she can't even talk about it. Stupid.
She wants it more than she can even mention. Stupid.
Awake. Eyes, wide open and lips pressed tight. Breath withheld, palms wide open, heart racing with the sound of blood rushing to the parts of her body still left in her control and rushing out of the parts severed from her control.
She died.
It was not a clean death.
A bloody one which relatives shook their heads to say ‘such a waste’ and then returned to their perfect lives with nary a care as to the ending of the life of a girl who once knew how to live.
She knew how to live, but she had the dying part down pat.
She knew so much more than her head would allow her to keep, and she knew so much less than what her mind wanted her to remember.
She knew how to live, but the dying part was her forte.
She gave away her books to the one she cared about. She packed up her clothes in a brown and crinkly paper bag and left it at the place where she fell in love. She took her precious possessions and left it in the room of the one person who knew her heart inside and out.
She knew how to live, but the dying part hurt too. She would miss them all so much. But perhaps, she thinks, dying will put an end to emotions.
She had it all ready and she was sure she left nothing behind. Instructions to bathe her one true love, final comforting words to the man and woman who gave her life, a funny little letter to the one who whispered secrets to her in the dark and told her everything. A last minute gift to the one who left, but yet remained.
A dying note to indicate consent.
A glinting edge. A swift arc of such morbid beauty it brought tears to her eyes.
A death she welcomed for its respite. A death to end the longing, the pain, the sheer helplessness of slipping into an oblivion nobody saw. A darkness nobody could shine through, a heavy pressure on her chest no one can lift. A blackness so complete she forgot the taste of warmth.
A death so beautiful it hurts.
A death so magnificent it blinds.
Oh, yes, she knew how to live, and to breathe as if nothing was wrong with the circle of thorns around her neck.
But she knew how to die best.
1 comment:
Wow... some really, really fine writing there, dude.
i am speechless.
i wish i could give something more coherent, but the more i look at it the more i felt that it is flawless writing.
on another note, however; the people who look in the mirror and actually liked what they saw, only saw the surface of the reflection. if there's someone who looked closer and didn't feel the deepened resentment rising in them, they're ones who live life at the scanty surface where the air is thin and their brains considerably emptier.
Everyone hates the true pictures of themselves; reflection is always the ugliest thing, most hateful and feared.
I think people should always look in the mirror, push the hair off their faces, smile a smile and make a mental note to attack that acne northwest of the eastern cheek, then walk out and know that the best reflection is always the one you see from the dews of the morning drizzle.
The best reflection is the stuff u see that make u look, and feel, beautiful.
(that said, you can go sleep now).
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