Pretend I'm Screaming This

The Philosophy Student That Destroyed God

On my first day of university, I walked in to my assigned dorm room to be confronted by a man in a tweed jacket with a typewriter.

He had very few possessions and so the majority of shelf space was mine,

However he claimed the desk in front of the window was his and his alone.

And he would sit and write in to all hours of the morning until he would fall asleep in the small wooden chair and I would be left to move him to his bed when I had woken up only a few hours later.

And he occasionally brought girls back and played with their emotions for a little while before tossing them completely.

And it always intrigued me how he could get any girls he laid eyes upon, as if he was controlling all of it himself.

And when I finally managed to see what he was writing after nearly a year of living with him,

I believed he was.

He was writing some kind of diary, a thought log of everything he did throughout the day and why he did it and what the results would be.

But it was written in such a beautiful way it was like he was weaving his own story from silk instead of deciding who he wanted to hurt and how long to leave them hanging.

And sometimes I would look into his eyes and think about how much no one can begin to even to fathom what was behind them.

You see he believed the entire world sprung from his mind,

And so he would sit with a candle and a pack of cigarettes in that old uni room and create art and emotions and moonlight.

And I would sit and watch him and wonder if his life was full steam ahead or constantly dropping anchor because he seemed to live in this book but still paint the future with his fingertips.

Because at 3 in the morning I would wake up to him sobbing on the windowsill and screaming for escape from this role life had dealt him.

Because I would watch him smile to himself as he sent another lover away, knowing he would always be the one holding the door open.

He spent every night manipulating the world around him by starlight.

He perfectly wove the whispers they exchanged about him but god did he not write about her.

A girl I'd picked up in the bar with hair tinted purple and a smile that could hide in a crowd.

As she got out of my bed completely naked and picked up a piece of paper he'd just discarded and picked out a spelling mistake.

And just like that, his entire being began to unravel before a girl wearing nothing but perfume.

And it made him wonder that if God could make a mistake, then maybe he could be one.

A Q without a tail or a t without a cross or an i without a dot.

A where or a there or a your gotten just a bit confused.

And that's how a philosophy student destroyed God.