stephethxloser
I use this place to escape. A room inside my mind where no one can get me, no one can hurt me, no one can tell me what to do. I'm safe here, all alone in my mind, with my knowledge and my words and my books. My thoughts, some of them are dangerous, frightening, my memories, some are horrible, sickening. These things are not allowed in this room, because this is my escape, the room inside my head.
He made the sign of the cross above me, and I could only feel disgusted. How would this help me in anyway? These stupid superstitions, his magic wasn't worth anything more than the faith only he had in it. Even though somehow I felt lighter, I ignored it, because it was nothing.
I have nothing to show for all the work that I've done. I've toiled for years, decades, huge chunks of my life for a little bit of nothing. Nothing, it was all for nothing. I could have been so much more, and I've tried so, so hard. But it was all for naught. I have nothing to show for it. Not one thing. None.
I've gone for miles and miles alone, walked for thousands of miles on my own. The weight of one life just feels so heavy, when I only have my two shoulders. And now, standing on the edge, where the cliff of life meets the sea of death, I stand. I am all alone.
He had sex with the maid. Plain and simple. She was beautifully simple, with olive skin and dark eyes. He was pale and ordinary, with a just as ordinary wife and children. He craved the exotic, he craved adventure, and he got it, in her, the maid.
It shall never be complete. I am missing dozens of piece, the ones I do have are warped with the heat of the ages, and I cannot make neighbors fit. I stare down at the puzzle, and to me it is the most pathetic sight in the world. I stare down at the puzzle. It will never be complete.
The darkness was sudden and complete. There was nothing, not a candle's flame, not a lightbulb, not a star. I was not blind, my eyes were working perfectly. It was the world around me that was broken, dead, and devoid of light, of life.
I've driven from coast to coast in a forty year old blue junker and it has been the best experience of my life. At seventeen most people really haven't been around, or that's what I have learned through seventeen years of observation. There's always a few. Military families and such, who've been all over the world, but most people, small town people. They were born in Hazard, Kentucky, and they have never left Hazard, Kentucky. I changed that for myself.
It was a gift in which no one could mistake its interior. A red box sporting yellow polka-dots and a card that read Happy Birthday in black letters across the front. Everyone knew what this present was, despite someone's obvious desire to disguise it, for out through the top past the ribbon, poked a blunt, black hook, hinting at the umbrella inside.
It's hard for me to commit to anything. At twenty five my friends say it's because I still haven't found true love even once. Of course, they've all found what they believe to have been true love, not just once but multiple times. What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm just unlucky, or lucky. From the way true love seems to eat them up inside, they won't make it to forty.
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writing since 2009 · 39 entries · 39 days shown up
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nowwifefakepawneyesredsitbestcountryroominsideheartlongeranywaymotherfather