love, read, write

It wasn’t always like this, you know. Before, I used to have lots of friends and family by my side, I had a smile on my face, and my thoughts were clear and mild and happy. That beautiful picture of all of the relationships I had with people—family, friends, relatives, acquaintances. The picture was full of people who all knew who I was. And for that matter, made sure I knew who I was.

But it became different. We all start at the same place, you know. So in the beginning years of life, everyone isn’t that far from each other. We are easier to make bonds with—find friends, find smiles to share. But time draws us a line, a line that, if you start from the starting point—there are infinite directions you can lift off and go. I didn’t know, in the beginning—in the beginning, we were all the same distance from each other—generally. But it was, I noticed later on, true that even in the beginning, I was drawing my line in a direction much different than everyone else.

It’s not like I could help it—or that I knew what would happen. What could I do? As a teething little tyke, I could do nothing but oblige to my mother’s commands and scolds. She was, in a way, putting her hand around mine and directing the line for me.

But when It was time for me to draw my line on my own, and I looked up, there were less people in the picture. That picture—that once had lots of friends, family, relatives, acquaintances—that picture was becoming something entirely different. I began to feel a strange sensation in my heart—that if I ever looked up, there would be less people by my side, less people to share smiles with, less people to talk to. Their lines were going in the completely opposite direction. This sensation grew stronger as I grew older. I felt weak. And lonely.

I would approach others, hoping to find that it was possible to break that feeling—to recreate that beautiful picture I had in the first decade of life. I tried to communicate with other people, smile at them, and wave—do what they all seemed to do on a daily basis. But all I would be returned was that look. Those eyes—they were all the same. They had that scornful, hateful, disgusted look. It would come in variations—after nearly two years of the effort, I realized that subconsciously, I had been analyzing those looks, tucking them into different shelves—sorting them into different categories of contempt. There would be embarrassment, hatred, disgust, amusement, condescension, a large variety. But I did not give up.

Whatever I had done to try recreate the bonds and relationships of life that I so dearly, so desperately yearned for—whatever I had done, it turned out to be the wrong action. Very wrong. They began to look at me differently—after a point in time. And very rapidly, their looks all assimilated into one category. It was something I couldn’t identify—not at all, until whatever I had done, it broke. It finally erupted, and they created a bond with me for the first time. But it wasn’t one, not at all, one that I had wanted.

The first time they began this ritual, it was in school. They took me into the bathroom and made me inadvertently gulp toilet water. They kept me there for an uncomfortably long time. It was, at first, a delight to realize that someone was finally acknowledging my presence. But after a sickening amount of time, I realized that this was not something I should be happy of, that, if anything, this was taking me in the total opposite direction than the one I had in mind.

It became more frequent, and then less aquatic attacks were used, and more physical offenses. I found myself encountering my own blood so often, it was like a daily sort of thing, I’d expect it. And all the while, I kept my efforts in trying to create a bond, a relationship, with anyone. Please, anyone who would give me a hand and let me find myself away from this desert.

By the time my acquaintances with my blood were becoming regular, I realized that the beautiful picture that once was, was now only a fragment of my memory—almost becoming a figment, confusing me whether it was truly real or not. For now, I was in a dry, arid desert of nothing but my shaken, lonely mind, filling the empty space. My voice cracked in the dry, moodless air, and my hands were bleeding from no moisture. I was purely, utterly alone in this world.

Did I dare consult my mother? No, her strong voice and opinions, her forceful looks and actions—they all gave me a realization not too long after I began to lose the beautiful picture. I realized that it was she who had been the cause of this—she who had drawn the beginning of the line, pushing me into the direction, so far out, that by the time I realized, I could not turn back—it was too difficult to turn back. For everyone was not letting me go in their friendly direction—nobody was letting me through—they were all pushing me away. They refused to give me a chance.

My first second decade of life was in utter misery and pain, loneliness and hatred. My pure innocence in the efforts to befriend any being began to grow weak and desperate. I began to lose hope.

It was those words that truly cut me off, that gave me the true idea, that gave me the realization of my future. My void future.

“Nobody wants you here.”

Nobody.

All those words, I had refused to accept before, words that were vulgar, words that were cruel, words profane. They all pierced my heart, but those—they broke it. I finally realized that it was true. Nobody wanted me alive. I had no purpose of life. What was I do to, but be a pathetic human to exchange mean words about, to glare at, to throw hurtful words at. I was truly a nonexistent being, to the point that, people merely knew who I was, to acknowledge me as someone they didn’t know, who was a nobody. That’s what they called it. A ‘nobody.’

When I found myself in a position that I had to get a life, a job, I had nobody to consult, nobody to ask. For I was landed in a desert of loneliness, completely, utterly alone, in the darkness of the desert, trying to read the sand, to find a pattern in the sun—anything, that would be a means of communication—a means of getting a meaning, a flower into my heart. After searching for years and only getting yells and shouts and curses of my mother in return, I somehow managed to get into a place which they called college, which I called, the last step before true loneliness.

After college, I realized that I would truly be alone in this world, no classes to attend, only a job to search for.

How puny. How pathetic. How pitiful. Nobody was around me. I was slowly drying away in the desert, my skin turning to dust, my hair crumbling. My eyes would barely crack open, and my muscles and joints—were rusty old because there was nobody to oil them.

I realized one day, upon looking in the mirror, my life before me, and the life ahead, would never, ever be any better. It would never get better, and I would never be able to find a smile. Because I was already dying, because for two decades, nobody would reach out to me, no matter how hard I tried. Because society just could not accept me, whether it was for my efforts, for who I was, or for who I wanted to be. They only judged by their eyes, and not their hearts and souls.

It was a sharp, sudden, flash of a realization, because my heart was so dry and tiny, it could not take it.

I looked into those eyes of mine and saw but one emotion. Fear.

What had I done wrong, that put me in this position? What did I do, that, in the beginning, set me away from people whom I once called that warm, happy word—friend?

Nothing, nobody cared. Nobody wondered. Nobody asked. Nobody.

How could I make them see me? How could I make them smile, other than showing my pitiful, bloody self, embarrassed self to them? What could I do, that would make them look at me, look at me with anything other than disregard, ignorance, and condescension?

I went to college classes, day after day, and decided to pick someone whom I would try to befriend, once more. If it didn’t work, I would truly find no need in being alive. I soon found a beautiful lady, someone who had kind, twinkling eyes, and lots of friends. I began to like her more than I did to anyone else in my life—I fell in love. Seeing her gave me a seed of hope, a droplet of water on my cracked lips.

It wasn’t long before she noticed. And it wasn’t long before I even managed to gather up courage to confront her, that she courageously came up to me—oh, how blissfully happy I was that she was looking at me—but something was wrong. Those eyes.

Those eyes of contempt.
And fury.

“Can you stop staring at me? You’re so creepy. You don’t have any friends, and you’re always alone. Who are you?”

“But—I like you… can you be my friend?” How long it had been since the last conversation…

“You’re so creepy. Get away from me, get out of my life. You’re always following me. I’m going to call the cops if you keep doing that! Nobody wants people like you here.”

It was that again. And this time, because of the affection I had felt towards her, that hope that somehow unchapped my lips and let a faraway oasis appear in my field of view—it brought a heavy wound upon not just my heart, but my mind, soul, and body. I felt dread, and for the first time, I felt hatred. Hatred for this world, that created an atmosphere to make her hate me, hatred for all of the people who made each other so prejudiced and cruel, hatred for the living beings of this world—for not letting me in.

And I began drop the classes. I stayed home, and using a computer, began to draw myself into the world of fantasy, where I could find a world with no humans, or humans who were kind, or humans who ended up as heroes.

I began to watch movies, movies of what people called villains, whom I found myself deeply interested in. I shared those moments they had, I could understand them fully, their loneliness, their hatred to the world—I could feel it bubbling in my heart. I realized that I was not alone in this world, that those people also felt these things. And I realized that I could also end up as they did, in positions of power and wealth. If I could just steer the world in a different direction, I could manage to evade deaths like theirs and maintain a life of success. I realized that this hatred and this loneliness could breed a new type of life for me—of this thing they so often identified, that word they so often used—power.

I began the task of walking the paths of those people, and started out by picking a movie. This would be a very dangerous road to take, enemies could appear, and threats could occur. I carefully planned out the whole road. I began to force a way out of that desert. The first step was physical likeliness—which was much easier than planned—the Internet was quite useful a tool.

Becoming obsessed in creating a world where I was no longer dying of dehydration, of no moisture, of complete, utter darkness and loneliness—it became my life.

It was not long before I realized my final step. I had to create fear in people—I had to do something that would force them to look up to me, not down.

It was a perfectly well planned out idea—an ironic one, that I would create my first act of mercilessness towards the people I so hated—it was beautiful. I no longer needed the ‘beautiful picture’ I once longed for. I needed respect. And this would earn it, as did in the many videos I analyzed and watched for studies.

I used tools and weapons to create the diversion and work upon my first attack.

It succeeded, and I identified myself in front of the remaining crowd, looking for that look in their faces—and indeed it was there—fear.

Not long before I knew to carefully protect myself—for enemies would come, as did in the videos, and not long before my name became popular, it was on the Internet—when once it was a name to spit upon, to curse at.

Not long before a person came looking for me, telling me she would help me out of my problem. Finally, a follower. I had expected more, but one, for now, was enough. I would reward her later.

But she did not seem to understand the rules of apprenticeships. She constantly asked me questions, about my painful past. I tried persuading her about the future, of my plans—but she told me they wouldn’t work. She was a frustrating apprentice.

I saw her one day, and it was before she noticed me, but she was speaking of her fear of me, of her worry.

Only then did I realize that somehow, upon trying to create fear and respect in people—I had returned on my old plan. On relationships. She was the first person I could truly speak to, who would not tell me of my uselessnesses to the world.

It was then, that I changed my mind, and began to cooperate with her, in search of a bridge that would help me cross it, and for the first time, take a look at the lush fields of flowers, friendships, families, bonds, relationships.

It was in her that I planted my seed of hope. As my drying body began to emit an ugly stench, I weakly, meekly hoped that seed had found a fertilized soil. I planted my hope once more.

~

Guess whose story I tried to write a ‘story’ on. Just guess.

I can feel the scorching sweat seeping into my skin again, and the sun glaring down at me, sizzling me like an egg on a fry pan. The sun, ever so big and ever so powerful today, is reaching its frying arms right down onto my face, my arms, my legs, me.

I open the screen door, thoughtless, mindless—both taken away by the heat of the mighty sun and merciless weather.

My back raining from the unwanted warmth the backpack gave me.

But, no fear!

As I open the door, I can feel the cool air rushing out to meet me already. I can feel, just by touching the other side of the door, the in side of the door, that it is a cool, refreshing, invigorating place to be. And immediately I rush in, closing the door carefully, of course, and throwing off my backpack. Kick off my shoes. I look around, feeling the coolness seep into me. But the power is not strong. I am still sweating, and heat is still felt.

Looking around and realizing I am the only intelligent living soul in the house, I peel off my shirt and pants and change into my gym shorts right there. I run upstairs and put on a tank top, letting the cool air brush past me as I run. I throw the used clothes in the laundry basket, and run to the bathroom.

I take my glasses off and place them beside the sink. I turn the cold water on, all the way, and run over to get a hairband to tie my hair. I come back, and feeling with my fingertips that it isn’t cold enough, lose my patience and wash my face anyway.

The cold water, touching my scorching skin, my red hot skin, my melting skin—relieving it of all memories before. And as the water gets colder, I am almost smiling because it feels so—so chilly and refreshing. It feels like heaven, that place everyone finds so peaceful and forgiving. I splash the frigid water onto my neck, onto my face, letting it drip down and seep into my skin. I put my arm under the faucet, just for the fun of it, the coolness of it. I am all wet, my clothes are wet, but I don’t care. All that matters is that now, it’s not hot.

After a long session of splashing myself with the best water you can ever splash yourself with, I run all around the house—hey, nobody’s home, so why care? I’m blind without my glasses, but it doesn’t matter. The Fuzzy Objects are of no importance now. Carefully navigating so that I don’t bump into sharp things, I run around, arms wide out, like a little kindergatner playing airplane or superman. I run around like superman, but I’m much cooler than he. Let the breeze of the air conditioned air freeze the remaining droplets of water on my skin, twirl around until I’m dizzy, run around some more, and then run back up the stairs to wash my face cold again.

This time, the water’s immediately cold, so I use a plethora of it on my face, an abundance on my neck, and a cornucopia of it for my arms. Leaving the cool water dripping on my arms, I put my glasses back on and run downstairs. I long for a cool, icy popsicle, that could make my insides all cool too. But when I get to the freezer, I have another idea. I open it wide, and stick my head in. The misty air is freezing the moisture on my face, and I close the door as much as it can go, so that all the freezing air can stay here. The feeling, the whirring of the refrigerator, the slow moving chilly air, the biting cold holding onto my cheeks and forehead, it’s all a wonderful, bliss moment. I close my eyes. Relief.

Sorry for not posting in a while. On the pentaclovel or decaclovel thing update, I have read one classic book so far, and it’s not even much of a classic. It’s a start, at least. I’ve read Alice in Wonderland. It’s a rather easy book, but just for the sake of it, let’s call it a classic. Working on Tom Sawyer right now.

 

Here’s the main. A little something I wrote today:

Sweating a little, but still a little bit awake in the humid air, I walk down to the parking lot, my too-small sneakers squishing the muddy, sloppy ground beneath my feet. Avoiding the larger puddles, I stare down at the dark green grass, and the mud revealing itself with a dull, shimmering glow, from the reflection of the sun. It’s kind of hot, so I walk in a way that wind can kind of graze my neck. It feels okay.

“That was terrible,” I say. “Wasn’t it?”

I look up at my mom, half hoping she would reassure me and tell me it was at least a little better than last time. Encouragement isn’t too bad, you know?

And plus, I did try a bit more than last time.

But my mom apparently doesn’t agree.

“That was terrible,” she says. And that’s just the start. I can tell.

“It was a waste of time! Do you really want to continue this? I mean, you’re terrible at it.”

I concentrate on the movement of the blades of grass. They’re all swishing this way and that. I step on one of the swinging glass blades, which makes a rather large slopping sound.

“Yes,” I say. If I’m going to do any sport, it’s rather I continue this than any other—I’ve failed at any sport I’ve tried. At least I’ve started this one. No use starting another.

She sighs.

I concentrate on the concrete, now. The grass and mud are behind me. I lightly drag my racket on the ground, and then lift it up again. Long arms, my dad said. Good for tennis.

Good for tennis, all made up. God forbid, I’m not good for any sport.

We’re at the car, and my mom’s blabbing on about my pathetic skills. My brother slips into the car, and sits right down in his seat, which is right next to the car door. His feet are luxuriously laid out in front of him, meaning I have to pass through by shoving his feet to the side.

Which is what I do. A glare is what I get.

All the while, my mom is yakking on, while opening the car door, slipping in, closing the door, inserting the key, and putting on her seat belt.

When she’s all ready, she sighs for the second time. “I mean, you were good that other week, it was at least a bit better, but now your form is terrible! It’s atrocious!”

“Okay, okay,” I say.

I think to myself. I know I am sensitive. There’s no use avoiding that. But I will not cry.

Sensitive me has tears in her eyes. But she’s not crying.

I swallow a coming lump, so it goes back down before it can lodge itself in my throat.

“…And geez, you swing this way and that! Do you even think when you’re playing? After last last week, I thought you’d improve a bit, but it’s exactly like it was! I rant on, you get mad…”

I think to myself, But I’m not going to cry this time.

All the while, the car is lining up to get out of the tennis place.

“…You just have to swing! Don’t you listen to the teachers? I mean, don’t you think about turning around and using your hip, or stepping in? Why do you just sit there and swing the racket like there’s a fly? I mean…”

I know it’s no use listening to her ramble on. It’s always the same. She repeats it all, but in different insulting ways. So I open the window, as far as it can go, which, thanks to the ‘safety features’ of the car, is only halfway. I tie my hair back with the hair band, and close my eyes halfway, leaning my head on the window.

I can only catch a few words, now. It’s so much peaceful here. The air roaring in my ears is much better than the words of my mother.

“…Need a private tutor…. Waste of time… can’t even do this… never will improve… never do well… so bad at it…”

The car stops at a red light, and suddenly I hear the words cutting clear into the air again.

“What do you think when you’re playing? Do you think about the form at all? I don’t think you think at all. Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

And I actually did, you know. I stood there, telling myself that I would not go through another teary session in the car again, another yell-y car ride, so I stood there, telling myself to step in with the right foot (the correct sort of right), and to swing through, at least hit it in.

And I didn’t exactly hit it that bad. I mean, it went in sometimes. Which, according to my terrible sporting abilities, wasn’t all that terrible.

But of course, being the oldest and also the worst, things were not always bright when you compared yourself to the others. Didn’t really notice this much, even, until my mom told me last last week how disgusting I was at tennis.

“I mean, you’re the oldest! And the worst! Aren’t you embarrassed? You’re old enough to think through the moves, and you’re not like a baby, who doesn’t really understand and who doesn’t care much about how they play! Right now, you can’t just learn for fun!”

The light turns green, signaling the wind to return to my ears.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the roaring of the wind, filling my ears and brain.

I can just make out that my mom is now turning to reassuring herself, mostly, about how it’s okay, and that I just have to practice my form a hundred times a day, and that it’s normal, being so bad at it.

“The Avengers,” I read to myself. That’s what’s on the movie theaters now. We pass the cinema, and I try to leave some of my thoughts behind, but my mom’s throwing more at me just as I try. I listen to the rustling of the winds, finding its way into my left ear, which is cool from all the air. I read the commercial signs posted near the road, read the restaurants and supermarkets flashing by. The world is so fast. And I’m too slow.