The Scrambled Philosophies That I Call Thoughts

Love(hate)

yes, i have so much past, but today i wanna talk about now; this. this is a letter to my—i don't know what you are to me. yes, you're right, i lovehate you. i want to...I don't even know what I want, just that i was just playing 20 questions with my friend, and it was so horrible because suddenly, everything, my every answer, my every thought led back to you. I saw you around school today, in the hallways, between every class, and i bet you thought I was stalking you. to be honest, that wouldn't have been such an unreasonable assumption. yes, you're right, I'm crazy, I'm freaking insane, and all I know is that she's with you, and im not, and im keeping your secret, so I can't even explain to my dang readers what the heck I'm talking about. I don't even know why I'm doing anything for you, remember, i kind of hate you—i just sighed at that statement, because in three freaking months—(you have no idea how many times I've almost cursed in these last few sentences)—you've made it into a place in my heart that not even my grandmother is in. This I can explain.

You told me that in five years, youre going on tour with the Navy, and guess what, you prick? I almost cried. And the next day at the dinner table with my mom, i did cry, and I put on my 'happy mask' within ten seconds, then went to my room and I cried again. For an hour. You don't understand the gravity of this statement. My mom said one thing about the possibility of you dying or coming back maimed, and i broke down crying. I don't even cry when someone talks about my grandma dying one day. She used to be on that list of the people whose death I couldn't bear to think of, and now she isnt and you are and i dont even know whats wrong with me anymore. All I know is that all these emotions that i always thought didn't happen to me are now happening to me, and I have no idea what's going on. Maybe I should talk to you about this instead of confusing the heck out of my precious readers, but I can't, and I also can't describe my emotions with words because words are beautiful, and what I'm feeling is something ugly. no, I cant describe it, but i'll try.

(Just to warn you, this won't be eloquent or pretty or perfect because im about a week past caring—this all started on Thanksgiving Day at my grandma's house—off all days—of all places!—but im usually a positive person and i want to give you an idea of what level of negativity could cause such thorough insanity so as to produce this pathetic excuse for writing. So that is to say, here goes nothing.)

You are an artist. Creation of beauty is your passion, and while you're a humble person, you must admit that your latest painting is nothing short of a masterpiece. As you admire your painting—your everything, your world—you pick up your bucket of black paint, seeing the tiniest imperfection, intending to fix it; never willing to let good enough be. You pick up your smallest, most delicate paintbrush, and as you prepare to initiate your one final stroke—preparing to bring into existence the greatest piece of art to ever to be seen by mankind—preparing to make all the pain of an unappreciated occupation worth it—all you can see is arms—arms and a bucket; a bucket of black paint.

It all happens for you in slow motion, really. You see the arms, and try to stop them, the paint, the tragedy, but you can't, can't shove them, can't break them—anything to preserve your masterpiece, your world!—because they are your own—your world will be destroyed by your own hands—and suddenly, there is more art. But this art is in your mind, and it is a tragedy. Your mind—your emotions—are a car crash with newborns on board, the sinking of the Titanic—you are a literal train wreck, and you are enraged. You look up at your artwork, and you feel ashamed to have even made it. You do not want to create—you loathe it's beauty—no, you want to destroy.

You embrace the hands, and consumed by such rage that all the demons in Hell would be jealous, you throw the paint upon the canvas. Slow motion again, and two seconds—two lifetimes—two infinities before the darkness consumes everything you love, you feel regret. Regret will not help. It is too late. It's gone. The story's over.

You are artwork again, and this time, it's not rage...it is grief—it is insanity. You are insane, because it is gone, and you are free, and nothing matters. You have destroyed everything that you love—you were your own fall—and you must dance on its ashes. Rage all over again, and you stab through the blackness with a paintbrush. You want to shred it—so you do. You stab, and stab, and you are angry—angry, defeated, insane. Yes; you are insane, defeated, and angry, and nothing matters. You. You were your own fall... The end.

If I could describe the negativity in words, that's how it would feel. You hear that? That's how you make me feel, and I'm sorry if you don't like it, your majesty. I love you...
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Thirteen Word Love Story
Okay, don't freak out, but I think I might be in love(hate).