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The Pointless LifeOct 17 '04 (Updated Nov 14 '04) Write an essay on this topic.
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put me in your suitcase let me help you paaaaaack 'cause you're never coming back no you're never coming back Well, it's true. I'm not. I'm gone. Dead. Was it hard watching my mother with tears rolling down her eyes, her face beat red, her remote feeling of emptiness inside? No. Actually, I was pretty upset she was so selfish as to cry for me. What the hell is so bad about dying? Thing is, she was just crying for herself. So was my dad. And my sister. And all of my friends. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ So before I died, I lived. Looking back on it, it was so awful, I can't believe I put up with it. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I was a blank slate, man. Blank. This world could have written whatever it damn well pleased on me. I wish it would have written something on me that would have made me mad to be dead at 22. But it didn't. This world wrote hate on me. It wrote hate, anger, spite, all over me. When I was little I was already being told I wasn't worth a penny and then when a few others told me I was, all they did was confuse me. I was sworn at. I was insulted. I was beaten. My family was insulted. So, what did I do? I did the same. And I bet one person I affected...I bet they're dead and cursing me 'cause they like death better than life and they realize that that isn't normal. Or is it? This world wrote acceptance on me. You might be thinking, "well oh, good, acceptance is nice." Yeah. Tell that to the females getting circumcised in far away places. Hell, tell that to the woman who is getting the crap kicked out of her in Somewhereville, USA and her neighbor knows about it but won't intervene 'cause we're told to accept. Accept wrongs done to man. As long as it isn't being done to you. Sure, it's great to love one another despite our differences. But, we accept evil, too. And that makes us evil. This world wrote frustration, stress, and anxiety on me. I never lived one moment without thinking about something someone else expected of me. I lived my life to serve others who never served me. This world wrote love on me. Well, ya know what? F-U-C-K-L-O-V-E. It never did me one bit of good. So much love to give and nowhere to give it. Was I not taught love right? I always thought it was something you gave to your fellow man without condition. But every time I tried to deliver, all I got was a return to sender. So, love is no good because all it ever made me feel, ultimately, was empty. This world wrote humor on me. Yeah, I was really really funny. So, do you know what the best use for humor is? When you're hiding the massive amounts of pain that rest on your soul. It's a cover up most of the time. I laughed to keep myself from crying. I should have just cried on your shoulder. This world wrote stand-offish-ness on me. It made me have these profound emotions and then whenever I wanted to express them, I got ridiculed, I got eyes rolled at me. This world made me callous. Everyone would probably tell me I wasn't but I was. Or else I would have told everyone I loved that I loved them every time I heard their sweet, precious voice. But, instead, their seeming tenderness just reinforced that it was all fake, that we were being nice as a formality, and that if I crossed the line and actually expressed genuine emotion, that I was a complete freak. This world wrote numbness on me. Sometimes I simply did not feel like I was living. Just moving around, doing what I was supposed to. I was kept in line; oppressed. I fly now. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I always thought the ending to "American Beauty" was so profound. Now I just laugh at it. I mean, what're you kidding me? An effing flying plastic bag is beautiful? What, is this guy delusional? Then his jibber-jabber about the moments of his life being overbearing and how beautiful it is. Look, I saw my life flash before my eyes and I was thanking every splashing blood cell that I was finally departing. When you die, everything you did on Earth just feels more empty than it felt when you were alive. You see what was going on behind the smiles you encountered and realized how truly terrible people are. Then you saw what was going on in your brain and you realize how awful you were, too. Everyone's a savage my friend. That's just how it is. I mean, think about that flying plastic bag. How was it created? Petroleum. So, maybe it should represent the day when our raping of the Earth's natural resources will bring us to pandemonium and possible extinction as we fight over the last of the fuel. Or, perhaps it should represent the massive tons of litter scattered all over the place when people just assume that someone else will pick it up. We always expect that if we don't do it, someone else will. I mean, you don't want to work at MacDonald's but some other poor, distraught soul will. And you'll patronize MacDonald's, buy $5 value meals, and then act surprise when his minimum-wage-making behind robs your home and rapes your wife. Hey, whatever. Maybe that plastic bag was used for some customer to transport their newly bought goods to their car. Perhaps those goods were made in a third world country, by some little boy with AIDS, for four dollars a week. Screw your American beauty. Ugly doesn't even describe it or the rest of this globe. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ So, I suppose now you want me to define the plight of mankind or how to solve it. Alright. I'll give it to you. You know those atomic bombs you have? Build about 10,000 of them. Take them up in air planes and drop them all over the globe until it is completely devoid of the human race. Then everyone else should jump out of the planes and scream, "it all ends with me!" I died with the raped and marred womb of a ten year old little girl. I died with the starvation of a six year old boy in Somalia. I died because when I was a little kid, you stomped on me and broke my spirit. But really, I am dead because I was tired of mankind putting the gun up to my face and forcing ultimatum after ultimatum upon me. So I bought my own gun. Pressed it to my face, fully loaded, safety off. And I asked myself the question I just wish, for once, this world would've asked me... "What will make you happy?" The answer should be obvious. I don't regret it for a moment. * * * * * * * * * * Author's Note: I am not saying, when the going gets rough, kill yourself. I am not plotting my own suicide. I am not spelling it out for you but, sometimes, you just have to admit, we live in a place that is horrid in many aspects and that ruins people before they ever have a chance. Oh, also, this was written in a constant stream. * * * * * * * * * * For more information about Cryptic Cradle and his reviews, please click here. * * * * * * * * * * This has been a Cryptic Cradle Production.  |
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