Why does this website not let me insert tabs? Sorry, I cannot put tabs in (?)
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'"Maybe all the strings inside him broke," she said.'
A seemingly simple sentence. His strings broke. Possibly. It's not even a definite thing. It could have happened; it also could not have. A short sentence composed of nine average words strung together, maybe without thought, maybe with.
If that is true, why does the sentence haunt me? It's a sentence like many others. I'm sure there are a great amount of knitting how-to's that include content about strings breaking.
Sometimes, we have to look at the bigger picture. That sentence, written by John Green, probably means something completely different to him than it does to me.
I saw strings everywhere, long before I saw the aforementioned sentence. I saw strings attached to everyone. I cannot find the correct words to describe this, so humor me, please.
There are strings connecting limbs; a young boy, around sixteen years old, has a string tied up in a young girl's, tangled, creating a labyrinth of secrets and history and rushed "I love you"s spewing from kids trying to grow up too fast.
A man's string leading to his briefcase. He only has one string, and it's connected to an inanimate object; connected to something that gives him no joy, only money. Maybe he will be the next to go. His law firm downsized, not meeting his quota, accused of falsifying evidence. Whatever it could be, his string gets cut. Nothing is ever definite, as that man finds out.
Some people hold their own strings. They are strong enough to carry the weight of their own worlds. They lift themselves up and maintain a healthy level of insanity.
Those are the ones to be envious of. They're happy. However, they are far and few between. Most people are less lucky. Most people's strings become invisible during their teen years. They believe they have none, and need someone new, to become their one visible string.
And then there's me. I could try to impress you with my extensive vocabulary, or try to wow you with stylish flairs and clever tricks. Or I could tell you the truth.
I could tell you that I'm lost. I could tell you that one sad summer day, all my strings fell away and I tried to fill that gap with twenty-nine pills, a cocktail of sleeping pills and Ibuprofen and antihistamines.
I could tell you that as I lay in a chair at my best friend's house, and my stomach churned and my eyes became nearly impossible to keep open, I felt a sorrow that I would die at fourteen years old. I could say that I felt a hint of guilt for deciding to die at my best friend's house, as I should imagine that's incredibly rude.
I could tell you that my life flashed before my eyes, but in truth, it didn't.
I could share with you how terrible it felt putting my best friend through what I did. How the guilt digs into me for making her keep me awake when I just wanted to sleep. I could tell you about the fear that rang through her voice when she walked away for five measly seconds and returned to find my eyes closed, on the brink of permanent slumber.
I could tell you that now, after staying awake, that day comes to mind occasionally.
I could tell you that sometimes, on days where my strings seem transparent, I wish I had succumbed to the force pushing me into sleep.
I could tell you that now, my strings are dependent on my dog, and on the rare occasion, Valium. I could tell you that sometimes, I wonder what my strings even are.
I could tell you all that; and I suppose I just did.
