Untitled Ficlet
This is an original story I wrote, well, not even a story so much as a ficlet. I just wanted to put it up since it's pretty much...me, like who I am.
Untitled
Life is short; internally you know this, but it is so hard to face. You want to do better, to be better, to change the world, even if it’s only one person because that person would mean your life wasn’t useless, that you weren’t useless. Other people, those around you that are fighting their own battles and demons might understand but they wouldn’t take the time. Everything in this world is ‘fight for yourself because no one else will.’ Childhood, a very emotionally charged one, played a large hand in teaching you that. People leave, they abandon, they hurt you, while climbing their own dream ladders. It hurts; leaves a deep imprint in your heart and takes away innocence and ideology. You become cynical at life, wanting to stay safe but knowing that word doesn’t exist for people like you. There is no safe in a world full of emotional and psychological landmines. There will be no happy ending, maybe a more contented, but you are so messed up that it’s stupid to think of rainbows and clouds, pots of gold at the end, of kittens and puppies romping in the grass, of that elusive dream where people love and accept what you are and why. That is a place for only fools, and no one would call you that. You’re too sharp-edged, a few rounded turns but not enough to matter. You are harsh with a tarnished gleam.
The world has a dulled hue around the outer limits and bleeding into the center, rose-colored sunglasses long since broken. You look out the window, watch the world go by, and just for a moment you wish to be someone else, to be someone that didn’t stop believing in fairy tales and Prince Charmings, in the fact people take care of their own. Then you turn away, because too much heartbreak in one day only makes the loneliness feel worse. The seemingly never-ending empty feeling is enough; there’s no need to add more. Sighing, the world you created continues on; sharp edges cutting you slowly from the inside out. There is no time for wishes, for private dreams. Abrasive and unforgiving, the world continues on, and succeeding in life, depends on how well you’ve learned the lessons. It is a mastered game, but brings no joy. A little bit inside bleeds, sapping more of your humanity and beginning to leave just a hollow shell.
Untitled
Life is short; internally you know this, but it is so hard to face. You want to do better, to be better, to change the world, even if it’s only one person because that person would mean your life wasn’t useless, that you weren’t useless. Other people, those around you that are fighting their own battles and demons might understand but they wouldn’t take the time. Everything in this world is ‘fight for yourself because no one else will.’ Childhood, a very emotionally charged one, played a large hand in teaching you that. People leave, they abandon, they hurt you, while climbing their own dream ladders. It hurts; leaves a deep imprint in your heart and takes away innocence and ideology. You become cynical at life, wanting to stay safe but knowing that word doesn’t exist for people like you. There is no safe in a world full of emotional and psychological landmines. There will be no happy ending, maybe a more contented, but you are so messed up that it’s stupid to think of rainbows and clouds, pots of gold at the end, of kittens and puppies romping in the grass, of that elusive dream where people love and accept what you are and why. That is a place for only fools, and no one would call you that. You’re too sharp-edged, a few rounded turns but not enough to matter. You are harsh with a tarnished gleam.
The world has a dulled hue around the outer limits and bleeding into the center, rose-colored sunglasses long since broken. You look out the window, watch the world go by, and just for a moment you wish to be someone else, to be someone that didn’t stop believing in fairy tales and Prince Charmings, in the fact people take care of their own. Then you turn away, because too much heartbreak in one day only makes the loneliness feel worse. The seemingly never-ending empty feeling is enough; there’s no need to add more. Sighing, the world you created continues on; sharp edges cutting you slowly from the inside out. There is no time for wishes, for private dreams. Abrasive and unforgiving, the world continues on, and succeeding in life, depends on how well you’ve learned the lessons. It is a mastered game, but brings no joy. A little bit inside bleeds, sapping more of your humanity and beginning to leave just a hollow shell.