I found a lot of stuff I wrote a long time ago. It's so strange. I'm so strange. Doesn't matter though because no one ever reads my blog. Anyway, here goes.
--
She stared silently as the pen quickly scurried its way across the paper, scribbling illegible diagrams that were just that, scribbles. Any other person would have called her foolish and said she was wasting her time, but she didn’t care. She did what no one else does anymore; she does nothing. She doesn’t see it as a waste of time. She doesn’t see it as pointless, because though she physically remains silent as a falling tree in the woods with no one around to hear it, her mind races faster than the golden sunlight gently trickling down her delicate strands of brown hair.
For unknown reasons, her brow is fixed in a convoluted manner, intent on seeing what no one else can see. She has spent all of her life looking for something that she can do, something that no one has ever done before. Of course, she realizes that in itself this is a cliché dream, an impossibility just as difficult as convincing the entire human race to agree on something. She wants to achieve it nevertheless, for she believed in herself, believed that she was something no one else was. Of course, teachers, parents, and all other fellow human beings have been saying that to her all of her life, but she did not truly believe in such a thing. Over and over she ran the paradoxes out of breath, over and over until the very pen she held had dug through the paper after hundreds of lines superimposed upon each other.
The ink had long since bled through onto her legs, upon which she was using as a table. The blue ink she used was no longer so blue, it was now a dark purple. The dark purple stained the delicate satin dress caressing the once soft tissue of her legs, now scratched through to the bone and bleeding like a noisy stream wearing away upon stones in the bank. She smiled at this, for she did not see the blood nor feel the pain, she saw a ballet dancer whispering to the night with precise gentle movements, a ballet defined by the lines embedded into her paper, into her flesh, into her soul. She saw a smile, a wicked mischievous smile that called out to her, lulled her into the sweet poison of oblivion, the world of the delusional. She saw a flower, dead and broken, treaded on by everything from horses to humans, lying in a pool of darkness, coaxing and gently brushing her bangs away to allow saline tears to splash silently, painfully, and unconsciously onto her already fatal wounds. She smiled, reflecting ever so delicately the wicked smile playing with her from her ruined papers.
She smiled just so as she was carried to her very own sepulchre, ready for a slow, steady fire to consume what remained of her. She let herself go at that moment, whispering to the world how much she hated it, how much she loathed every moment of her existence, how she longed to never return. However, at that single moment, a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder.
She blinked.
Looking up, she saw the silhouette of what she assumed was the angel of death, looking down upon her. Instead, an illusory voice that seemed to toy with her head as if it was dancing with imagination itself called out to her.
--
It’s never enough. Nothing, nothing, is ever enough. I could be with you forever, but to think such a thing at this moment, forever is not enough. In ten years, three years will seem to have been too much, but for now, it is never enough. Yet, it is never enough because it never was.
You were there the other day. You saw me. You looked at me. You noticed me. You noticed me, because I am different, I am unique. I saw your eyes. I saw your face. I saw your expression. I love you. I loved you. I like you. I dislike you. I want you. I don’t care what I say. They are all just words. You love me. You want me. Those are merely words.
You saw me, you looked at me, and I saw you. I walked towards you, I inched ever so slowly. I felt the adrenaline rush, I held my stoic face. My eyes locked on yours. I advanced. I touched you. I breathed your breath. I held your hand. You held my body. Our lips met. Our souls blurred, mixed. Our minds became one. Our sadness melted away, and our happiness blossomed.
A blink. A tap on the shoulder. Back into a sudden and harsh reality I come. I am far from you, I’ve lost you. You walked by. I am standing, in the middle of the street. People now stare, but I don't care. Weird, a freak, insane, stupid, strange, those words rush through my ears. They rush past my ears.
My eyes are frantic. My eyes are wide. My eyes search for you, for your face. I don’t find you. Your eyes, in my mind, go to my eyes. They stay there. I see your eyes, only your eyes. It was only a split second, but I will never forget now. Not until the day of my death.
I do not move, still. Cars come, it is a busy road. A drunken driver comes, intoxicated by alcohol. I stand still, intoxicated by obsession.
Bump. Silence.
A letter, sent one week ago, arrives at your door.
I know you saw me. I know you know. I saw your eyes see mine. I forgive you. I do not care about your words, about everyone’s words. I care about your eyes, how they saw me. I care about you. You could see the dead girl, the ghost in living flesh. You could see. It may have been a split second, but it was there. You know, and I know you know. I have known for a week this would happen, I have known for only a week. I have lived, this silent little ghost, for only a week. It was enough. It was enough. What is this? A suicide note? I suppose one could say that. Words, attach labels to everything. These, you are reading, are but words. The words do not matter. Only the eyes. Only with seeing as you have, will you be seen, as you have been seen. I leave you with those words, simple little words. I do not expect to be an impact on your life, but know that you, that precious week, was mine.
(I don't seem to remember writing this one...)
