GentlemanLoser
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jun 16, 2006
- Messages
- 0
(A Ranting Internal Monolouge, nothing poetic about it)
Why did time have to accelerate just as everything was deteriorating?
Most of your life, a year is span of time that measures a great amount of accomplishment and time. Then it starts to not matter. Your world changes. You move your little puzzle piece somewhere else. Rehab? College? Work? The Parish? But when this starts, and your old life becomes nothing but nostalgia for you and your friends, time starts to get faster. A year matters little. Christmas keeps shooting by and that damn birthday pivots around you, riding on deaths coatails. He smacks you on the head every year and tells you you've gotten just a little closer to being dead. Go celebrate! You're runnin' outta' years to do it!
Thats when it went from difficult but hopeful to that Nowhere called "Life". It's not the way things should be. It's just the way they are. And all the romantic idealism in the world can't change it.
You said love, you meant it. She said love, you thought she meant it. Well, be happy that one person thought so, it just wasn't her.
Statisticly speaking 50/50 isn't bad, in fact you can make a living in Sin City with that luck...to bad you there are no Blackjack tables where you can win back all the hope thats disapeared.
"I like you. is what is whispered to you from the pilow next to yours. Red strands flow along the pillow and form a small lake of her hair and she smiles while her eyes link with yours. This is it. The momments you'll never forget.
"I like you too. But I'm wondering if we say that because we're afraid to say something else."
So you try it out. Love. Fill in the blank, change the statement, re-send the message and now it's "I love you."
You said it. She said it. One was a liar. Didn't you say you'd never lie to me? But this is how you feel, you can't help it? Of course I understand, really I fucking do.
Why didn't that hour of my life wasted in Music or Choir go to "How to Deal with the Hypocracy of Life"? They should have. Doesn't matter though. I'd probably have failed it anyway.
In the end she's gone. You're walking down those disgusting, glossy stairwells that smell like a keg of beer and a Bath and Body works just exploded...it hangs there. And the Kates walk past. Kate 1, Kate 2, Kate 3. They're all Kate to you. Because the one name that mattered just told you not to come back. Ever.
A pang of regret as you walk out of the stairwell door, taht you'll never be able to bitch about how awful these stairs are...you're never going to traverse them again.
On the plus-side, you'll never have to consume Dormitory Foood ever again. Then that thought makes you sick because you only ate in that shithole with her.
Her.
Laughing naivette rides the temperate February breeze. The jocks flex, the Sorority clones stare, and you walk past. The look on your face is something indescribable and would leave anyone confused as to it's true meaning. The joke? It's funny: you don't know either. Because there is this feeling so indescribable you can't really grasp it. An hour later in the car the same thoughts conduct through your skull, because you're still not sure what happened. All you know is it's bad.
Every second it gets worse. The sickening, gravity-drop of despair and depression bludgeon your psyche. Tears would be nice, at least then you'd have defined the trouble: sadness.
But it's far more epic than that. Sadness is part of a larger problem: you're alone. She said you'd never be alone. And you wanted it. You believed because you wanted to, because that made everything better. I use to believe in Santa Claus, turns out mom and pop lied. I use to believe in Love. Whats that saying about love? Do the math, it's not Organic Chemistry.
Driving on a dark Freeway road, the stinging sensation ballooing behind your eyes cooled only by the night air, the tears that still aren't falling. It hits you that the only thing you lost was the hope that forever was a possibility.
It isn't. But telling yourself that isn't helping. Realization like a papercut in your heart tells you it's over and it's been over...she just ended it.
You were in love with the embodyment of a ideal that doesn't exist in the real world. She was that vessl, the one that contained Love and Trust. You just wanted what was inside, it didn't matter what the container looked like.
Stay in the car forever. Just drive around until you're crushed by a semi. Because as soon as you park at your apartment and walk inside it's finalized and you're alone.
You're empty. And you hate her because she completed some part of you. What does that mean?
That you didn't complete a part of her, you didn't fit into her puzzle. She didn't need you.
All this time you felt you needed her. Apparently she didn't feel the same way. Thats why she asked for head twice that morning, because she knew you weren't going to be around anymore, because she planned it. Increase dramatics. You thought maybe she really wanted you that morning, but she didn't. After breakfast The End was desert: bye.
If it's as agonizing for her as it is for me, as she keeps repeating like a carnival hawker selling useless trinkets, how come she's not crying?
Friends? No thanks. Stay in contact? Chat a lot? Be there when the other needs to get laid or feel better about themselves..."See, someone will love me no matter what."...it doesn't work. You can fuck and fight and cry and laugh...through thick and thin you'll never be friends because you were never really friends...just lovers passing time and pain.
(apologies for any grammer/spelling, just didn't feel like doing it.)
Why did time have to accelerate just as everything was deteriorating?
Most of your life, a year is span of time that measures a great amount of accomplishment and time. Then it starts to not matter. Your world changes. You move your little puzzle piece somewhere else. Rehab? College? Work? The Parish? But when this starts, and your old life becomes nothing but nostalgia for you and your friends, time starts to get faster. A year matters little. Christmas keeps shooting by and that damn birthday pivots around you, riding on deaths coatails. He smacks you on the head every year and tells you you've gotten just a little closer to being dead. Go celebrate! You're runnin' outta' years to do it!
Thats when it went from difficult but hopeful to that Nowhere called "Life". It's not the way things should be. It's just the way they are. And all the romantic idealism in the world can't change it.
You said love, you meant it. She said love, you thought she meant it. Well, be happy that one person thought so, it just wasn't her.
Statisticly speaking 50/50 isn't bad, in fact you can make a living in Sin City with that luck...to bad you there are no Blackjack tables where you can win back all the hope thats disapeared.
"I like you. is what is whispered to you from the pilow next to yours. Red strands flow along the pillow and form a small lake of her hair and she smiles while her eyes link with yours. This is it. The momments you'll never forget.
"I like you too. But I'm wondering if we say that because we're afraid to say something else."
So you try it out. Love. Fill in the blank, change the statement, re-send the message and now it's "I love you."
You said it. She said it. One was a liar. Didn't you say you'd never lie to me? But this is how you feel, you can't help it? Of course I understand, really I fucking do.
Why didn't that hour of my life wasted in Music or Choir go to "How to Deal with the Hypocracy of Life"? They should have. Doesn't matter though. I'd probably have failed it anyway.
In the end she's gone. You're walking down those disgusting, glossy stairwells that smell like a keg of beer and a Bath and Body works just exploded...it hangs there. And the Kates walk past. Kate 1, Kate 2, Kate 3. They're all Kate to you. Because the one name that mattered just told you not to come back. Ever.
A pang of regret as you walk out of the stairwell door, taht you'll never be able to bitch about how awful these stairs are...you're never going to traverse them again.
On the plus-side, you'll never have to consume Dormitory Foood ever again. Then that thought makes you sick because you only ate in that shithole with her.
Her.
Laughing naivette rides the temperate February breeze. The jocks flex, the Sorority clones stare, and you walk past. The look on your face is something indescribable and would leave anyone confused as to it's true meaning. The joke? It's funny: you don't know either. Because there is this feeling so indescribable you can't really grasp it. An hour later in the car the same thoughts conduct through your skull, because you're still not sure what happened. All you know is it's bad.
Every second it gets worse. The sickening, gravity-drop of despair and depression bludgeon your psyche. Tears would be nice, at least then you'd have defined the trouble: sadness.
But it's far more epic than that. Sadness is part of a larger problem: you're alone. She said you'd never be alone. And you wanted it. You believed because you wanted to, because that made everything better. I use to believe in Santa Claus, turns out mom and pop lied. I use to believe in Love. Whats that saying about love? Do the math, it's not Organic Chemistry.
Driving on a dark Freeway road, the stinging sensation ballooing behind your eyes cooled only by the night air, the tears that still aren't falling. It hits you that the only thing you lost was the hope that forever was a possibility.
It isn't. But telling yourself that isn't helping. Realization like a papercut in your heart tells you it's over and it's been over...she just ended it.
You were in love with the embodyment of a ideal that doesn't exist in the real world. She was that vessl, the one that contained Love and Trust. You just wanted what was inside, it didn't matter what the container looked like.
Stay in the car forever. Just drive around until you're crushed by a semi. Because as soon as you park at your apartment and walk inside it's finalized and you're alone.
You're empty. And you hate her because she completed some part of you. What does that mean?
That you didn't complete a part of her, you didn't fit into her puzzle. She didn't need you.
All this time you felt you needed her. Apparently she didn't feel the same way. Thats why she asked for head twice that morning, because she knew you weren't going to be around anymore, because she planned it. Increase dramatics. You thought maybe she really wanted you that morning, but she didn't. After breakfast The End was desert: bye.
If it's as agonizing for her as it is for me, as she keeps repeating like a carnival hawker selling useless trinkets, how come she's not crying?
Friends? No thanks. Stay in contact? Chat a lot? Be there when the other needs to get laid or feel better about themselves..."See, someone will love me no matter what."...it doesn't work. You can fuck and fight and cry and laugh...through thick and thin you'll never be friends because you were never really friends...just lovers passing time and pain.
(apologies for any grammer/spelling, just didn't feel like doing it.)
