With Misery

I press myself against the big windows of the bus, blinking wide eyed out at the streets of New York. There is a man on the corner. In his hand is a handkerchief, or tissue, I cannot tell. He coughs into it, or sneezes, or he is crying. He's sick, or very sad. Immediately, I hope he's just sick, and quickly feel guilty for the thought. Still, I cannot bring myself to hope that he's just sad, and cannot place the reason as to why.
 Maybe sadness is a fate worse than death.

The End of the World

The waiters eye our tables wearily, clearly unhappy with the overtime we're demanding. We must look strange, an sweaty cast in full makeup at 11:30 at night, singing and screaming unrecognizable quotes over our food and ice cream. I feel at home here. In the back of the room, the devil stands up, his pointed eyebrows now comically smudged, and announces that we have an hour left to live before judgment day.

Another spoonful of ice cream, the slow melt of chocolate and peanut butter over vanilla. Half an hour left. We all laugh, tempting fate, but under tables, some hands are grasped. There's a breath of uneasy fear under the mocking. But as for myself, I am calm. I am happy. Twenty minutes left. I am happy. Fifteen minutes left, and I realize that even if we do die, this is exactly where I'd want to be. High on life, filled with ice cream, surrounded by friends, really living. I am living.

Maybe the rapture has already happened. Maybe nobody is really good, or nobody really believes. After all, we're plagued by endless sins and corruptions and disasters. Maybe our nature to doubt and question and investigate has already doomed us. And so we are doomed to the imperfection of life.

And in the hellish midst of rapture, I am happy.

Thank you

To those who followed me when I ran out of the room crying. To those who cared enough to comfort me. Thank you.

Are you there?

The room is big, and beautifully lit. I sit awkwardly in the corner, anxiously pulling the hem of my skirt down over my crossed knees, painfully out of place, no matter how I try to hide behind the table. I silently curse the group guilty with abandoning me here. Loud voices bounce around the room, and I try to keep on a shaky smile. After a short while, the crowd thins out, filtering into the big room behind me. The room I'm in is suddenly empty, only a hollow beauty. My heels click against the floor if I shift my legs, loud, sharp echos.

Behind, a thick wooden door keeps me out. If I get up and walk around, I can peer in through the opening, down a long aisle, to an alter in golden and white light. A glimpse of what I'm not a part of. I sit at my little table again, my back to the closed doors.

I can hear the Lord's Prayer, and I can join in, mouthing the words to the chanting I learned mindlessly when I was young. Suddenly, a bell, ringing of a brassy dark death and eternal damnation rings out rhythmically, ticking down time to a fate I cannot place. It rings. I do not belong here.

Delete Comment

To Anonymous on Venting, of 5/6/11.

Yours is the first comment I'm refusing to post, due to the staggering amount of obscenity you chose to use. Sorry. You might want to take your own advice though, on getting a life and stopping complaining. This isn't your blog, and this isn't your problem. Didn't your mother teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?

And no, not everyone hates me. Anyway, being genuinely loved by just one person is worth more than being hated by many. I'm going to continue writing, thank you. It's better to make waves than to go with the flow. That's how I live my life, and a part of me I cannot change. Confidence, my friend, confidence. You have my pity. I'm open to criticisms, so long as they can be constructive. Comments like yours will be deleted. 

Best of luck to you.

Oh, and since you can't seem to get it right, my name is Reagan. Thanks.

Graveyard

The world is quiet here.

I needed to slip away, and the world has given me peace, at least for an hour or two. I feel dizzyingly small as I set out, accustomed to the two dimensional world I live in, on papers, on whiteboards, on screens. Suddenly, bracing myself in 3D is exhausting. I brought my camera to help me explain that. There's a haunting calm, and I pull onto a path I haven't taken before, and from the looks of it, neither has anyone else in quite awhile. Every now and then, a bottle, or plastic, or paper, sprouts from the ground, growing among the leaves, all but forgotten, caught in a balance of death and life.

There is something in a tree ahead, just higher than I could reach. I slide to a stop, and try to land gracefully as I jump off the bike too high for me. I walk closer, until it and I are, literally, face to face. It doesn't process at first, the toothy sharp white grin. When it does, I fall backwards, and I feel my stomach clench, threatening nausea. I trip, over and over, and my mind whirls back to Lord of the Flies. The Lord of the Flies, the pig's skull, the devil, the devil. For some reason, no other studied symbolism or meaning comes to mind, just the repeated scream, the devil is staring back at me. Someone has hung the skull of a dead animal, maybe a deer, on this tree. The branch of the tree has been broken off, leaving a sharp point, onto which the skull has been impaled. Flies buzz around it, apparently oblivious, or maybe just not deterred by the lack of flesh.

The silence feels different now, the silence a graveyard, and I feel small and insignificant.

There is scattered trash, old alliances, rotting wood, stripped metal torn from old cars. A metal bathtub sits at the top of a hill, collecting algae and rainwater, and a cabinet rots at the bottom. Each comes with a story. We live in the graveyard of the memories before us.

In the pond, the geese flee the mockings of the shore. From my side of the pond, I hear the running water, the familiar honks of geese, and today, a smaller, insecure chorus of peeping. There are babies today.

The trail itself is a grave, built over the railroad that once ran there. Off the path, there are the past control switches, tall poles wrapped with wire. The numbers nailed to the bottom of the pole are of thin metal, and crumble and bend at my touch. The dead tree stands as a relic against the living.

Self-Centered Hypocrisy

"wow...i didn't know you were that self-centered and hypocritical. i feel bad for the person you wrote this about" -Anonymous, on Venting

You know the deal, I'll let anyone comment, and I get to respond to anything I don't like. 

Being self-centered refers to someone who only cares about themselves. Your comment would be applicable only if I refused to acknowledge that she had any other plans, or may have been busy, or only talked about myself. This is my blog, my post, and specifically, a post called "venting". I openly acknowledged "I get it. Everyone is pressed for time, everyone is stressed..." and "Nobody loves change. Nobody loves having new people invading such a big part of their lives. I know." I understand her point of view, and I was just trying to explain mine. 

Hypocritical refers to someone who criticizes someone, while secretly doing the same questionable action. Again, your point is invalid. I've reached out to her multiple times, I've texted, called, messaged, and she's busy. This doesn't make me a hypocrite. I'm not a hypocrite because I try to be there for my friends as often as they need me, and I'm sure there are people who can vouch for that. 

I am not self centered, and I am not a hypocrite. I'm sorry you feel I was harsh enough for her to deserve your pity. I am a girl. I have a blog. I am scared. And I feel alone. Come back when you have a valid criticism.