So I was going through my laptop, and found these things I wrote back when I was 14, 15 and 16. Let me know what you honestly think. I think they're juvenile, but hey, I was just a kid. Oh, and they don't have titles. Never had them, never wanted them.
Nothing but a waste of space. That's how you think,
right? Worthless, shameful, imperfect. Broken beyond healing. All because of
one person. The words they spew still sting like venom; slowly rotting you to
your core. You can't help but to keep your thoughts unvoiced, hidden behind
cracked walls.
The mind is powerful thing. The way it works
fascinates and confounds whomever is curious of its' depths. You can never know
what someone is truly thinking; how they're mind is working. Yes, adults have
far more wisdom or 'intelligence' than the younger generation, but have you
ever known exactly what is going on in the mind of someone who's not as wise?
Not as intelligent? The teenage mind baffles anyone who dares to brave its’
waters. You can never know what we're thinking. The abnormalities inside will
have you wondering how that person is still functioning, how they're still
alive. The teenage mind is an amazing thing; it can confuse you, it can make
you smile, but most importantly, it can make you feel sadness on a whole other
level. Some say teenagers just have attitude and are nothing more than delinquents.
I say, do you know how they feel? Do you know what they've been through?
Everything based on experiences, and memories. Memories are what we live off
of. A final breath we take from the reality we drown in. No escape. We are
prisoners of our own sub-conscience battles. Torturing ourselves for that one
memory that makes us smile for just a moment. Why should anyone judge a person
who is crying out for help, but doesn't have the words to say it? They don't
have enough power to voice out what they are going through. We are strong in
many ways, constantly mimicking elation we may have felt at a simpler time. We
are masters at fake smiles and falsifications. We can mask the ugliness we feel
inside ourselves. The teenage mind engages itself in emotions no one else would
dare to go near. Why do we do this? Why should we make ourselves suffer for
something so common? Happiness is something that should never be thrown around.
Happiness doesn't come from material items for us; happiness comes in the
moments we treasure, and experiences we abide by. We keep everything inside
something so small, so delicate. We take so much care of something that should
be destroyed, and we want nothing more than to shatter it. To deface the
barrier we cower behind. We'll have happiness one day, and we may actually have
a real smile, not an imitation of our desires.
Who am I? The
question we all ask ourselves. Are we who we really want to be, or are we the
people everyone expects us to be? I ask myself this question everyday. Am I
just a figment of someone's imagination making me into the person society molds
everyone into, or will I be one of the lucky ones who'll find a way to a
personal freedom? Everyone expects you to be perfect, to be some amazing
tribute to this world, to know all the answers. In reality, no one knows all
the answers. We lean on others to make the decisions we're too afraid to make.
We look at ourselves in the mirror through all the things that make people
believe we're not just a bunch of imposters, and realize that we don't need all
the access things we cover ourselves with. I think of this, and not even the
tears can wash away the fakeness that I plaster all over my face. It's a harsh
world, but we just have to dig deeper, and until the minute before you die;
you'll never know who you are, never know who you could of been.
-
Eleven O’clock. The sound of an engine
starting makes you reminisce about what day it is. You see it coming up, your
heart pounding so hard you hear a ringing in your ears. The door slides open,
stepping out and grabbing your black mesh duffle bag from the back seat. There
it is. The familiar scent of fresh cut grass and bright yellow paint makes you
smile as you walk over to the guys. The suns bright, and you have your Gatorade
hanging out of your mouth. Every moment that pasts makes your head fly through everything
you’ve learned so far, thinking of which will come first. More and more people
arrive as you get arranged, mentally and physically. Eleven thirty. You head
over to the turf, staring at the opponent, wondering what their thinking right
now. Minutes pass as you head over to the bench, focusing on the fact that your
about to go face to face with your number one rival. Twelve O’clock. You hear
the whistles blow. It’s game time.
-
“Do you trust me?” Were the only words to come
out of his mouth, his mind was off to another world. His eyes were light, but
had something behind them, burning, insinuating at me. His grip was tight on my
shoulders, and he kept it that way. The seriousness of his expression sent me
into a world of curiosity; ‘what is he thinking?’ Being alone with him, made me realize how vulnerable he was, but also, how incredibly
vulnerable I was, too. The sound of my breathing, the heartbeat thumping
through my chest furiously, he could see I was nervous; and I was. His grip
slightly loosened, slipping his rough hands into mine. He took a few steps
back, leading me from the kitchen to the living room. All I could do was look
down, too scared, yet to excited to look him in the eyes. Once he let go, I
made my way to the couch. He looked at me with a dim smile on his face and
walked over, standing above me. He grabbed my hand and lifted me up onto my
feet again, this time, smiling generously. The look in his eyes reminded me of
what he had asked, but I was so hypnotized, so captivated, all I could breathe
out was a simple, “Yes.”
-
I guess you can call it finding yourself, what I did. I don’t
regret the decisions I’ve made; I regret the time I had to make them. I can’t
apologize for something I’ve already done. That’s what’s funny about the past,
you can forget about it, or block it out, but you can’t change it. The only way
I can explain my situation is starting from the beginning, when my life just
began.
Nineteen years old I was on my own. Second year in college,
and still unsure of what I wanted out of life. That’s where I met him. The
awkwardness of middle school age came back as I thought that this person might
turn out to be mine. We moved in together second semester. Funny how a year ago
I was under my parents’ roof and now I was with somebody I loved, taking care
of each other.
It was a simple type of love, but we knew we were secure. We
had a fireplace that we would roast marshmallows at whenever it got a bit
chilly in our tiny apartment. We would go to the candy store down the street
every Friday night, and sit by that fire stealing each others’ best candies. He
would always steal my taffy whenever I wasn’t looking. They were my favorite,
but I let him take them anyways.
As the years wore on, we grew more tense toward each other.
He stayed out late, and I stayed in. I got lonely, and I got angry. Those
nights by the fire were gone and replaced with nights of arguments,
frustration, and tears. He would always apologize, though. And kiss me like he
did on that first day.
Nothing was ever fixed, always replaced with newer problems
facing us both. The first time I saw him with another I felt as if my world had
fallen apart. The same hands that use to hold mine by that fire all those
nights were now occupied with a stranger, an imposter.
I let tears fall as I pack his suitcase. I left on the steps
next to the mailbox, and gently laid down a note on the top of it. I knew this
wasn’t going to be easy, letting go of the person I loved, and shared so many
secrets with. He was mine; and we just, meshed.
As I waited, I remembered everything he has ever said to me,
everything he’s ever done for me. He was my best friend. All the notes he would
leave me in my notebook, all the silent hugs he would give me while I was
crying, meant nothing. My heart shattered as I put my head in my hands,
fighting back emotions I’ve never felt before.
I saw him walk towards those stairs he had been walking up
for years now, and his facial expression grew stern as he read more and more
into the note. The look on his pale face showed me he understood what was
wrong; and as he picked up his suitcase, he looked up at the window, and gave me
one last smile. I could tell he was hurt, but I deserved better.
As the days went on, I grew lonelier. Missing my best friend
more each day. Missing the way he smiled, the way he smelled, the way he held
my hand, and most of all missing the way he would hold me on those chilly
nights. Telling me everything will be okay.
So I sat there, on the same spot we would sit at every
Friday night, looking at that same fireplace. Wishing he was home again.
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