Even when we mean to mead her. We end her.
Even when we mean to end her ,we end her.
I think that maybe it’s the books that did it. In every page I turned, in every character I encountered I tried desperately to exhume some small trait from the pages as if brushing my fingers across the printed words would awake them with in me. I picked at books like a vulture searching in vain for a piece of soul that I could call my own. Like a thief in the night I would devour books ripping values away from the inhabitants without mercy. A catch phrase, a small quirk ,a sense of grandeur, I stole it all. I pieced myself together with fragmented shards of lives I had just taken, never bothering to find my own. All that’s left of me now is a sad little rag doll of a soul that has been ripped apart and sewn back together so many times that she will never be whole again. That’s what started it all.
It might have been the books that did it. The books that made me who I am took away who I could have been. I could have remained blissfully unaware of the unfaltering cruelty of mankind but if ignorance is bliss then I am in agony. Books put me into the lives of others. I walked, I breathed, and I lived in their shoes. I saw the world through new eyes every time I turned to a fresh page, and it destroyed me. Written down clear as day are all the faults of the world, the cracks in the human heart, and the hopelessness of society ,and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. As you read the illusion of your content world shatters in pieces around you and try as you might you can never piece your world back together in quite the same way. The cracks will always shine though. You will always have that small piece of you whispering maliciously in your ear reminding you that all is not right in your world and it never will be again. How odd is it to be haunted by memories that are not even your own.
Perhaps it really was the books that did it. Or maybe it was their writers. They are the ones that started this after all. They have selfishly searched for companions in their misery. They carelessly shatter the delicately constructed bubbles of protection against the harsh glare of reality as one reader after another falls to join the sorrowful ranks of those that put us there. We march together now in a melancholy army of understanding. We are the enlightened ones. We who have viewed the world through another’s eyes cannot possibly see through our own in the same way again. Where we once saw love we now see inevitable loss ,where happiness once blossomed we now wonder how long it will last ,where mankind was once seen as a glorious mystery it is now hopeless and wondering without a purpose. The enlightened army grows everyday but not fast enough. The joy of those still unaware shines out in beaming, glaring rays of glee that we no longer feel. We are drawn to it like a moth to a flame on a path of destruction. All we want is someone else that understands our blights someone that we can commiserate with. We press on through the glare determined to reach this blissfully ignorant soul. We do it thinking that it is out of mercy. Surly thoughts of understanding will heal instead of destroy. We tell ourselves these little lies to justify all of it, to make it all seem for the greater good. All we want is to mend them but we end them. When we finally break into their bubbles of ignorance and casually watch them shatter around us. The cycle begins all over again. A new writer is born and new recruits join our melancholy army.
It was the books that made me do it. I’m sorry.
yousharknotpass
2087
ellievsbear
vaporwave
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
