Trapped in Greed

Always (1987)

I stared at the crumpled pieces of paper that were scattered along the floor and the desk that was in front of me. My eyes rummaged through each piece, like a typewriter would go from left to right and back again. The letters on the mere leftovers of a tree had been so neatly printed, not a single mistake. It was too precise, though.

He'd always been like that, I thought to myself. He'd always been the overachiever... well, maybe. Nonetheless, he was always the one to freak out if anything went wrong. Who could blame him? He had OCD. It wasn't a joke; he took everything seriously.

I reminisced back to the times I'd seen him sit at this very desk, scribbling away. The words magically pressed and printed like he were a living machine. It was amazing. Day and night, week by week, month after month. He could literally write novels one by one, he could write a whole series within the next hour if he'd wanted to. But thats never what he wanted to achieve.

Yoongi didn't write for the purpose of writing. He hated it. The only reason why he'd write so much, was to keep himself occupied. As much of a clean freak he was, he had other motives for it. The soul justification of writing was to keep himself alive.

He had lots of things going on with himself. He was insecure, he had anxiety, he had borderline personality disorders-any mental disorder you could think of, he had it. Why? He never knew why; no one did. Diagnosis after diagnosis, it all turned out positive. How could something so positive be so negative in the end, he'd always ask himself.

The things he wrote were detailed, fictional stories of his despair that he wallowed in-possibly for the rest of his life. He'd drowned long ago, no one heard him when he screamed for help. Neither did they try to look for his decaying body that sat at the bottom of the dark ocean, called his emotions.

Various sheets blathered about the numerous events going on in his cluttered mind. There was an uprising.

I could never understand what exactly went on in that persistent intellect of his. He was demure and humble, but also diffident when it came to others. Yoongi'd never talk, just listen and watch. Every now and then he'd speak, it was an amazing rarity for everyone-everyone meaning me.

Yoongi was not always like this, though. Before, he'd talk a little more, but shy away a little less. It was the opposite of what he turned out to be; sitting in a dark room only shuttered with the light of a little desk lamp, writing away as each pen being thrown into the trash, buying more when he ran out. Ah, but his appetite was the complete antonym. His stomach was the least bit of modest, really. He was a petite, slim man who could eat twice as much as the average person. Out of all the distinct variety, he'd only eat various types of meat, along with a bowl of rice and a side dish, preferably vegetables only. That's just how he was.

There's not a day that goes by, that i don't think about him, though. Everything seemed like shits and giggles before there was an unfortunate turning point. It just wasn't meant to last forever; he wasn't meant to last.

The thought of him coating himself in a shell for so long, it must've been hell for him. These disorders never gave him a bad label, he just brought it out to be that way. He worried too much, cared too much, and never relaxed just the slightest. A workaholic in disguise, yet the only work he did was with a pen and a piece of paper.

Interesting, yes, but he was a complex being. No one understood him, not even me. But he accepted me, why? I always ask myself that. What made him choose me, rather than the others that chased after him. Thinking back, he was quite the chatter box. He was fathomed by the females as the peek of education, aka school had sprung to life.

Unbelievable, right? How one person could go from cheerful... and then just lost it all. It really brought out the fact that, since you're human-you're a living creature, it can be any day that you could lose everything. Even yourself.

Wishing that one day you could elope, plainly, without anyone knowing. I'm guessing that's how he felt everyday, ever since the news dropped bombs on his ego. His mind was an innocent village, and the terrorists dropped the bombs one by one, destroying everything.