THE BLIND GLASS RAGE

31

a/n: typing on a computer makes me really nervous and really paranoid, and like it didn't save all of my shit, so if it ever ends in the middle of a sentence, or a place that doesn't make any goddamn sense, please please please let me know. thanks, dudes.

also read the authors note @ the end. also (again) this isn't the best but the next chapter is gonna have to be bomb as hell. the next chapter is the last, by the way. can you believe??

forgive mistakes, and im sorry this took so damn long lmao

*** 

Having someone mean everything to you (as in the sun, the moon and stars and trees and grass and mountains and rain), is such a dangerous, nearly irrevocable thing to feel. To know. A petrifying thing, almost, seeing as it doesn't always end the way most of us prefer. With everyone smiling like they mean it, like it's honest, and feeling a shift of joy and freedom spill like a bucket much too full, trickling through the security they found, all recent and new, in their veins. Because, most of the time, someone is crying, chest ripped and heart punctured, a balloon everyone is sick of watching try and hover, over a mere loss they've suffered, when losing everything is not mere loss, but an ending.The ending. It's over. And they either think the exact same thing about you, (that you're everything to them) when they're watching you eat or listening to you get frustrated with them or when you're smiling like you had diamonds for teeth and a chest filled with gold and sweat and love, or breathing air deep into the lungs you felt that you continued to fill only for them, or they don't think of you very deeply at all. It was a gamble, starting any form of relationship with anyone you'll ever goddamn meet, because who knew how it was going to end, and on who's terms? I sure as fuck didn't. It was never my job. To know how things would end up.

Directors made a hobby, a living, a lifestyle, out of giving names, and meanings, to pointless things, and maybe even thinks that aren't pointless. Just like authors live to rearrange words. Make them into something no one else has really seen, things that need to be understood, remembered, and felt. Art is supposed to kill you, was made to do so, and then, bring you back to life. And that's how Josh felt. Like I found the most extraordinary subject for a movie, someone I'd been searching for every day for years, and he turned out to be just as deadly and strong as he was beautiful and inviting. I had to rearrange our words. I had to protect myself, through a camera and the promise to never mention a kiss shared in the near dark of a basement. But, the time came along. All books needed to be finished. Inside of your head or on pieces of yellowed paper. All movies needed a close, too. There was nothing without a feeble, unsettling, (or maybe) satisfying resolution.

I said all that to say, though, that if you thought, for a pitiful second, that throughout this entire messy, unorganized, angst-drenched story, I was going to let Josh go, and not bother to put up a fight for him to stay next to me (whether naked or clothed. Platonic or romantic. Brittle or strong), you obviously haven't learned all that much from me at all. Nothing about the things I pretended to care for, and the things I could never care for, and the things I would always care for. Josh was everything. He is. There was nothing without him in my life, all bright and warm and stronger than most people assume, whether he was patting my back or making out with me. It didn't matter. There was never going to be anyone as equally important. It nearly sounds pathetic, how dependent my words are tinted, but it was nothing less than a truth I can't ever fucking hide again. And I didn't ever have to. Joshua William Dun was mine to want. Mine to have.

And I'm sick of people claiming that teenagers are nothing but ignorant (and arrogant) kids, and that kids would never know their own feelings, or how to have any control them. Not to mention how to deal with them. But, no one did! No one ever would know how to behave when blood feels like it's coming up through your lips because you're not sure how to feel about a boy you've spent every day with. We don't know how to live when every movement of our body feels like it's soaked in everyone's betrayal. There's a lot of things you learn, a lot of knowledge you acquire as you age, but adults will always forgot how desperately they loved, how badly they wanted, how deeply they hated. They don't want to understand how it feels, anymore, to have things run so harsh and quick and deep, and intense, because they all choose to forget it. To pretend they're more sensible when they speak to younger people. When they're not, and might not ever be.