People: the ramblings of a madman

Philosphy

At what point us a man no longer human
The moment of diagnosis
The moment he is born
The first traumatic experience
Or perhaps jts when all the trauma comes together and the straw breaks the camels back
Maybe it's just when he stops caring
When he loses himself, or when he finds himself
The moment his humanity is killed, or when he is?
When he becomes nothing but numbness
Or when he wakes from his sleep each morning
Sleepwalking
Dreaming
Wandering

A sensation like I'm falling
Sitting here in this chair
Stillness, but plummeting
My hands drifting and flailing
Dangling off the armrests
My breath rising and falling in my chest
Cast off to the formless wind
No wind
No fear
Just falling
Numbness
Falling
Into the pit within me
Digging my own grave
Falling into no arms
No one to catch me
Just the wind
And this hole I dug

It's funny
How the darkness I feel expressed in my actions
Is naught but upon old beliefs
Guilt rooted in the lies of society
Power creating guilt
And yet I force it upon myself
For what sins have I committed
Of a religion I never believed
Still constricting
Like chains forged in my own mind
And all the same
It is nothing
Too far gone to blessed be the sin
And that very sin lays not in my heart
Not felt
Instead imagined
Dreamt as a punishment for secrecy

It was midnight,
His head buzzed with story's, and that was the curse of a writer.
One particular story stayed in his head and shifted from the rest like gold in a palmful of sand. The story of a boy and a girl, the girl whose mother was on her fifth husband and lived mostly in a van, where she lay with the boy, and they talked for hours.
The boy would go on to get into fights, and she would clean his wounds in the back of the van, with its vodka stains and peeling leather. Her family would live near his, and travel often, and the boy would often come along as well.
A vision of a moment caught the writers mind.
The boy laying there in the dark of the van at night with the girl, asleep, just across from him. In the chairs before them, the girls older sister, and her parents, who were discussing something. The boy was injured, or something of the sort, but truly, all he wanted, was for these ignorant, loud, unwelcome people to remain with them, as he stared at the girl he had so often wanted to lean over and kiss, or touch hands with. His head rang, blood pooled just below his nostril, but all he really felt, was a deep longing.
He wondered how he should make this story end. There was of course the happy ending, how they went on to intertwine one another's lives forever, or the sad ending, that they continued their lives but grew apart somehow, maybe distance and time removing them from one another forever. Maybe they would meet again someday, running into each other oddly in their mid-fourties', both married with children. And they would either talk, catch up, if only briefly, maybe share a laugh together again. Maybe not. Little things would remind one of the other, a dream catcher dangling from a rear view mirror would remind the boy of the girl, and the van of dark leather and grey carpeting where they lay together for hours, the back trunk open, their legs hanging out, talking to one another, the boy wanting to scream out his feelings as he stared at her. The girl would be reminded of him in people's faces, a large nose, dark hazel eyes, the way a man parted his hair.
The writer decided on the sad ending, and of course there would be some desperate, romantic, and foolish reader, as foolish as the ignorant parents of the girl in the story, who treated her genius with apathy, or the boy. The reader would comment something of complaint, on how the two should come back together, take the children of one family, and marry the wife and husband they each left. But, just like the boys mother returning, that was unrealistic.
Oddly enough, the moment the writer had captured in his dream, of the impoverished family and the reckless boy, was entirely in Spanish.
The writer filled his glass with water, and drank, the memory of the two quickly fading from his mind as the ice clinked in the glass, and the story, like so many others he had, was forgotten.
And that, was the curse of the writer.