(Useless Child - Kikuo)
Friends. They come and go. Family stays forever. Generation to generation, from child to child. Lovers, we don't need those. Love is terrible, love is the epitome of vulnerability. Love, you have to put in everyone. Put your heart into it. What if I don't want to though? Will I be discarded? I could never tell. Love, is the reason that everyone is willing to live for? Sadism, masochism, I could never tell.
I closed my eyes. All they see is darkness, nightmares. I see a blank canvas, an empty reality to dream. To dream about the thin line between life and death. The dream of a butterfly gracefully lingering atop cherry blossoms. To see the smoke and flames, and agony. The dream of trauma, yet all I dream about is the spike piercing through my chest. I could see the light, and then my eyes would open. To a cruel, unwanted fever dream. I closed my book of thought.
Sure, a book of thought is boring. Humans cannot seem to remember things on paper, so they display it on paper. Once was a living canvas, now reduced to a single canvas. When did we become so cruel? I inhale, to feel life and oxygen fill my lungs. Exhale, the creation of carbon dioxide, to repeat the cycle between us and plants. I dreamed too much, I knew it. The world was too gray without figments of human imagination. Why was I created, just to be discarded?
I sit up, brushing a strand of dark hair out of my face. I inhale and exhale deeply. I wonder why blood tastes so metallic. I stand up, closing my book. My shirt is wrinkled now, laying in the scorching sun on an autumn afternoon. The leaves crunch below my shoes, the leaves in such pretty colors that would remind me of the fire ablaze the house. When things break, you replace them right? I shove my hands into my pockets, looking back up at the clouds. The same clouds that witnessed my sanity crumble and fall. My feet reach the pavement.
The sky was cloudy, the autumn leaves falling down the trees. I smile softly at the tranquil sight. I walk slowly down the pavement, listening to the wind. The wind is a spectacle to me. Something so lifeless, speaks life itself. Sometimes the wind speaks to me, of dark thoughts and sometimes of peace. They're like my Mother, never quite there but encourages my thoughts and emotions. Today, the wind tells me of empty promises, of love that is fake and gold that is the dullest of them all. I listened, and listened to them speak about things that make absolutely no meaning. No meaning to my future occupation, no meaning to my cracked soul. Although, the wind speaks of only philosophy, not truth or lies.
I feel the cooling wind in my veins. I feel the cool wind to my very cracked and damaged soul. A smile creeps up to my face once more, watching two birds on the wire. On the line, I wondered what it was like. What it would be like to have wings, to fly away and escape from your troubles with only having to worry about survival. To not worry about your social life. To not worry about what others think about you, because now they will only see you as their mate, a companion with no love actually attached.
I walk through the gates of my neighborhood. Young pairs of eyes stare through my skull. All of them are pathetic, oblivious. They don't know anything about me, nothing about morals, nothing about my issues. All they could ever think about is the simplicity their world has, that they can see their reality in colors that all put up a facade about our society. They don't know that my heart aches with anxiety and weariness. They don't know that I walk on thin ice just to communicate. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. I walk past the pitiful children. I walk up the steps to my porch, hearing the sound of feet shuffling, of keys rattling to open the door.
I walk through the door, and hear distant shouting. My Father, once more is yelling at my mother as she stares at him with emotionless eyes. The standard norm for a housewife nowadays. This is why love shouldn't exist, she looks so miserable. My Mother is the only one in the neighborhood I pity, the one person whom I could say I 'loved'. Love. It just stings, and hurts. Why do people crave love just to suffer from it? It baffles me, the absolute lack of common sense these oblivious citizens have. Of course, I have no room for proper judgment as I was once like them. That I believed that sacrifice of my heart was the key to finding true love. Sure, the saying 'no pain, no gain' exists, but it applies to economy and political power, not such thought as love.
Wails fill my ears as I glanced upon the pitiful sight. My Father, screaming absolute nonsense to my Mother. I don't think I could refer to her as Mother, just a lost puppet gambled to the mental threats of society and manhood. When was the last time I had seen her cry? With those glass tears, more valuable than any diamond necklace to the world? When I was eight. When she sobbed as my heart crumbles and shatters to my brother. I miss my brother, he reminded me of a saint. He was too kind, so the world decided to get rid of him. To cast him away, to send him to mental exile in which is the inbetween of life and death. I still remember his glossy eyes, tear-stricken as his body lay limp. As his breaths were raggedy, as he begged for forgiveness as he left me.
He left me. For what? He left me for the euphoric feeling of death. To watch the blood seep out of the wound that my Father had made. To watch him gasp and choke for air as blood ran down his wound, his chin. It pained me. Since then, I learned that emotions don't matter, that they bring nothing but pain and suffering. That love was a mere temptation.
I watched with dull eyes the scene before me. If Mother had proper emotions, then I'd see a resemblance of the incident with my dearest brother. Of course, it'd be painful, another reminder that I'm a weakling. Pathetic, useless, emotional. I inhale sharply, turning my heel into my small bedroom. My bedroom was cluttered but it was a safe space, per say. Only my Mother arrives to blankly tell me about common things like dinner, basic needs. I had the entire room to ponder and decorate myself. A pile of books to the left, Moby Dick and Shakespeare. A few notebooks of ripped out poems spilled down to the floor.
I found it risky but comforting to put everything on paper. My thoughts, my ideas. I've isolated myself enough so nobody could ever worry about what I'm doing or writing. I'd wish for it to stay that way. To just be an antisocial freak, just to be a mere shadow to the ones above me in this social hierarchy. I find it stupid. I wish I could bash their brains out and listen to their screams of agony. I wish everyone could become birds, so we'd all be satisfied. Somewhat, in every species there is always some group of species unhappy. They don't wish to change their attitude as they gave up on trying or are attempting to get attention they lack. I wouldn't classify myself as those people.
I'd classify myself as an irregular, an error in the wretched system of life. Do you know what they do to errors? They fix them. Although, some errors cannot be fixed, so they get terminated and forgotten until the issues rises again. That's how ignorant the system is. Why couldn't they just terminate them? I may never know. Maybe they assume that they'll change under society's expectations of a decent human being? I like to believe they do.
Speaking of which, I laid down on my bed which let out a small creak with sudden weight put on top of it. I wonder, why do people care so much about my weight? Ah, that'll be a topic to think about later. I stretched my limbs, shifting my position to one that is comfortable for all my pondering activities. To continue dreaming in an endless reality. I could be doing Algebra classwork, but it's pointless. Mathematics could be useful, if you purposed your life well enough. I like to think that I would purpose my life to be financially stable, not happy. Money means happiness, right? When you lose money, you lose happiness. See the relationship with money?
I sigh heavily, looking up at my ceiling. Blank. White with a touch of traumatic memories. Maybe I'll decorate it later? Would Father get mad? I could assume he would. My thumb brushed against my cheek, and I felt a tear. It's humorous that mere thought could bring back my pathetic emotions. I let out a forced laugh, closed my eyes, and drifted to sleep. Maybe this time I could dream about being the bird on the wire.
