I have derived from my previous post that I am one sick individual.
That being said, I would like to take this rare opportunity to express my true and unfiltered thoughts into cyberspace - onto this website - where I've attained a reader-list of roughly seven people (with one very kind individual ever commenting). You naughty, secretive folk.
That being said, let us begin.
I'll be moving back into my house Monday, and I may ditch school for the occasion. Can you really blame me? I've lived in this hell-hole, this pathetic excuse for a "home", for nearly a year. Eleven months. Eleven months spent watching everything I'd come to regard as my own be eaten away by a beast with an unquenchable hunger. I'd always damned materialism and wished for freedom. I suppose I'll consider myself liberated.
My father has become an invaluable friend amidst the blitzkrieg of a lifestyle we've all been thrust into. I trust him above everything else in my life, and I feel like shit for ever bringing myself to hate him.
My mother is dying, has been dying for several years, and will probably take her last breath within the next two or three. I had spent so long worrying myself into a wreck over it that I honestly believe her death to bring me little more than relief. I know it's a horrible thing to say, but the truth seldom comes without a questionable undercurrent.
My grandmother is the most selfish, inconsiderate person I've ever met. I kid you not. Our house burned, and she offers to keep us. We wind up paying her bills, paying her taxes, buying her groceries, fixing her food, cleaning her house, and running her errands. She does nothing. If only we had gone with the apartment.
In spite of every reason to feel nothing but bitterness, I feel deeply enlightened and grateful. Grateful not for the things I've put up with over the past year, but for the things I've learned. The things I've learned about myself, and about those close to me. Not all knowledge is pleasant, but without it, we're only an inch further into the dark. I'd originally felt cheated by this whole situation. Cheated out of my youth. Thrust into adult worries and adult responsibilities by the truckload before my eighteenth birthday. Just as in my early youth, I've been forced to grow up entirely too fast. However, I now feel as though I've come out of everything stronger than I'd ever imagined, and far wiser than I'd ever hoped to become.
The ghosts of my mind have never been so erratic. Most days lack signs of their presence entirely. However, they have occasionally made themselves known. On a particular occasion, the door to the bathroom in the hall slammed shut, startling not only me, but my father as well. I ascended the stairs, assuring myself that it was the wind. Three children stood in the bathroom, smiling as though they'd found candy in the toilet. I was fucking horrified. My father felt oddly that day, as did I, and it seemed as though our obscure, unsettling feeling had materialized. Perhaps his experience of these things is finally the proof I need that I am not, in fact schizophrenic. Could I truly be seeing things of another nature? Surely not actual ghosts. People dislodged in time, perhaps (Billy Pilgrim style). Proof of the quantum theory, maybe. The truth is, I'd rather not know. I don't want to be special. At least, not in that way. I'd rather be insane.
I've become rather fond of jazz as of late. Speaking of which, I've acquired a new Buddy Guy album, which I'm going to jam out to now.
All joking aside, if there were truly a God as depicted by many idealistic practitioners of monotheism around the world, I believe that he/she would have his/her hand on his/her forehead, which would be shaking side to side as he/she uttered "Man...you idiots."
That being said, let us begin.
I'll be moving back into my house Monday, and I may ditch school for the occasion. Can you really blame me? I've lived in this hell-hole, this pathetic excuse for a "home", for nearly a year. Eleven months. Eleven months spent watching everything I'd come to regard as my own be eaten away by a beast with an unquenchable hunger. I'd always damned materialism and wished for freedom. I suppose I'll consider myself liberated.
My father has become an invaluable friend amidst the blitzkrieg of a lifestyle we've all been thrust into. I trust him above everything else in my life, and I feel like shit for ever bringing myself to hate him.
My mother is dying, has been dying for several years, and will probably take her last breath within the next two or three. I had spent so long worrying myself into a wreck over it that I honestly believe her death to bring me little more than relief. I know it's a horrible thing to say, but the truth seldom comes without a questionable undercurrent.
My grandmother is the most selfish, inconsiderate person I've ever met. I kid you not. Our house burned, and she offers to keep us. We wind up paying her bills, paying her taxes, buying her groceries, fixing her food, cleaning her house, and running her errands. She does nothing. If only we had gone with the apartment.
In spite of every reason to feel nothing but bitterness, I feel deeply enlightened and grateful. Grateful not for the things I've put up with over the past year, but for the things I've learned. The things I've learned about myself, and about those close to me. Not all knowledge is pleasant, but without it, we're only an inch further into the dark. I'd originally felt cheated by this whole situation. Cheated out of my youth. Thrust into adult worries and adult responsibilities by the truckload before my eighteenth birthday. Just as in my early youth, I've been forced to grow up entirely too fast. However, I now feel as though I've come out of everything stronger than I'd ever imagined, and far wiser than I'd ever hoped to become.
The ghosts of my mind have never been so erratic. Most days lack signs of their presence entirely. However, they have occasionally made themselves known. On a particular occasion, the door to the bathroom in the hall slammed shut, startling not only me, but my father as well. I ascended the stairs, assuring myself that it was the wind. Three children stood in the bathroom, smiling as though they'd found candy in the toilet. I was fucking horrified. My father felt oddly that day, as did I, and it seemed as though our obscure, unsettling feeling had materialized. Perhaps his experience of these things is finally the proof I need that I am not, in fact schizophrenic. Could I truly be seeing things of another nature? Surely not actual ghosts. People dislodged in time, perhaps (Billy Pilgrim style). Proof of the quantum theory, maybe. The truth is, I'd rather not know. I don't want to be special. At least, not in that way. I'd rather be insane.
I've become rather fond of jazz as of late. Speaking of which, I've acquired a new Buddy Guy album, which I'm going to jam out to now.
All joking aside, if there were truly a God as depicted by many idealistic practitioners of monotheism around the world, I believe that he/she would have his/her hand on his/her forehead, which would be shaking side to side as he/she uttered "Man...you idiots."