The Scrambled Philosophies That I Call Thoughts

Dichotomy

She was poetic, and beautiful, and free-spirited, and everything that I am not, and it makes me feel simple in the most horrific of ways. It all came to her naturally, though it is a great struggle for me. She'd had herself convinced that she was born in the wrong century, and was meant to be a Greek philosopher—though she was well aware that their society fell, and she secretly considered it a failure—an important failure, that is—yes, she knew that, but at least it was well remembered. That was what she wanted—what I want—so she sought to be adored, and made multitudes of friends, and was astonished to find that they cared, because she was born into a world that didn't. Constantly, she internally brooded, contemplating her future. She dreamt that her thoughts would take her halfway around the world. But she never left that forsaken town where people were all the same, and nothing new ever happened, and she never saw New York, and she didn't ever cross the sea. But she wrote, and the journeys that her words took her on were insurmountably bigger than I could have ever imagined. But the words, the thoughts, I fear, were evanescent, and slowly faded with her youth. She began to get distracted—by life, in general, as ironic as that is—and she began to let her mind take over. And she strayed—oh she strayed!—and now, both she and I are stuck. Her individually began to fade, and she began to do that which she swore—which I'd made her swear—that she could never have done. She started to become normal. She started to become just anyone else, and she lost it. She lost it all. She found herself struggling to cry, and she found herself wide awake at 3am with only silence in her brain—or maybe the thoughts were traveling too fast for her to comprehend. She didn't know, and I doubt she cared to find out, but what she did know that we were stuck—we were stuck, and she no longer cared to write. So she became social, like any other teen, and people didn't stereotype her—she stereotyped herself. She lost all depth and meaning, and suddenly all she could be defined as was nice, because she would no longer think. She lived her life like that; she was sucked into the abyss of normality. I realize now that negativity is not the root of all failure—no, the root of all failure is indifference. And her defeat sleeps top to toe with my success, because she didn't care to think, and she didn't care to write. But I do. This is our story. That was then, this is now; she is me.