Dear Reader,
There’s electricity in the air. Not the romantic kind, but the lightning kind. Illuminating the backdrop of this gray room and casting shadows on the wall. The unknown become creatures of the night, eager to sup upon my unaware body.
I’d never been a fan of lightning. I’ve always imagined it as gods battling in the sky. Zeus and Poseidon letting themselves be known through rain and lightning. Trying to reach Hades in the underworld. We humans are just collateral. Like ants, not worth their time. When the elephants fight, the grass gets trampled on.
I’ve never liked that feeling of helplessness. I don’t think anyone likes that feeling unless it’s some weird kink. To each their own, I guess. One of my defining traits is my unwillingness to follow without question.
A loud rumble interrupts my train of thought. The sound like the guttural moan of the earth taking its last heaving breath jars me. It’s a haunting sound, the rumble a call for action. For salvation.
I follow the rule of self-preservation. Some call it heartless, I call it survival. Stay in your lane and don’t try to help. It’ll only cause trouble.
I think it’s a product of anxiety. Maybe that’s why I don’t have friends. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws.
I mean, I do have a lot of acquaintances. I’d consider myself an extrovert. But I don’t have true friends. People who I’d hang out with and talk about personal things. They were mostly superficial friends who would talk about superficial topics with superficial smiles and superficial promises of maybe hanging out outside of school sometime. But they always have work when you ask, and they never ask. They give superficial pity that wasn’t asked for, and superficial beliefs that they didn’t truly stand for, and superficial relationships that they never truly cared for. Dangling conversations that they never truly grabbed for. They made superficial attempts to pretend that they’d tried. With superficial words and superficial lies.
I’m a joker, a comedian. I make people laugh. That’s it. That’s all I’m good for.
-Superficial promises and superficial rules,
A Fool
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Dear Reader,
It’s summertime. The birds are chirping, their never-ending incessant sound that ruptures eardrums. It's so hot that skin melts, witches die from the sweat of labor and fish caught on the line are already cooked. The skin of my Irish ancestors turns red in hue, while my hair luckily remains brown.
It’s nighttime currently. I’m writing by the sliver of light the moon reflects into my room. My desk is old and marked up, a cheap thing that somehow managed to last for decades.
In the drawer is the customary bible every hotel in the US seems to have. It’s just as old as the desk, maybe even older.
I’ve read it front to back countless times now. I’ve heard it provides some people comfort to read it. Good for them, but it’s never done that for me. It just makes me feel like there’s something missing. Like there is something wrong with me. Like I’m a sinner.
But I’m not. I’m devout, I try my best. I go to church every weekend; I pray every night. I do everything I’m told, yet I still don’t feel at peace.
I drink the blood our savior bleeds. I peruse the holy book and read. I help others and do good deeds. Yet still I feel it’s not enough. That nothing I ever do will be enough. That I’ll never be enough.
The moonlight highlights the worn pages of the bible. I’ve read the passages repeatedly, seeking to understand. Yet the words seem to blur together, their meaning slipping through my grasp like sand.
The chain of faith in my family has remained unbroken for generations, yet I seem to be the weak link that will break it. The chains are like a connection to my family, yet they bind me with the pressure to conform. The pressure to believe, that I try so very hard to do.
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I’m wrapped in the chains that I cannot escape. I’m not sure if I even want to. Maybe it’s my penance. The punishment for whatever I must have done in a past life. The sins I must have committed to feel this way. To feel so wrong.
Rather than a warm embrace that strengthens the faith of many, my embrace is cold and metallic, leaving marks upon my body.
It’s just as well since I’m not deserving of love or hope or faith or kindness.
-I’m just a loser, a miser, a tool
A Fool
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Dear reader,
I was only eight at the time. My best friend had just turned nine.
I was sitting in the back of class with my head down because I’d already finished the work we were assigned. The teacher told all of us that we would be going out to gym soon, so everyone was gathering with their friends to plan their adventures. I didn’t know anyone very well, so I just watched everyone and kept to myself.
Before everyone left, I saw feet enter my field of view. I looked up to see a kid I recognized but didn’t know the name of. He had a paper crown on his head, a gift from the teacher. It was his birthday today, yet he didn’t go out to play with any of his friends.
Looking back on that day, I realized it was because he didn’t have any. He was as lonely as I was, even more so since it was his birthday.
He was shorter than me by an inch or two, with pale skin and a thin frame. His hair was brown, and his eyes were a bright green.
“You wanna go play basketball?” he’d asked me.
He had a grin on his face, but I could see his leg was taping a mile a minute. I was 99% certain it was prank and he’d just laugh at me like the other kids had done. But there was a reason they kept on doing it. I always held out hope that this time it was the 1% that I’d always dreamed about.
“Sure,” I’d replied, flinching as I awaited the mockery that was sure to come.
But none came.
“Great!” he’d said with smile. He’d grabbed my hand and led me outside. We played basketball for the rest of recess, and he sat at the chair next to me when we went back to class. Later that day I learned his name was Tom.
From then on out, we were inseparable. We’d hang out every afternoon and every weekend. We were thick as thieves. I was so happy to have someone to talk to that I never questioned why he’d decided to choose me out of all people to hang out with. I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.
We got up to the standard mischief that kids our age did. I was always hesitant, being a strict rule follower, but he always managed to convince me to live a little. He never seemed to sweat the small stuff, unlike me. It was both an endearing and frustrating trait, but I couldn’t help but admire how free he was. I was almost jealous in a way. I wished I had that lust for life that he seemed to exude with each breath.
He was a smart kid, much smarter than I ever was or will ever be. He was top of our class and always ready to help me when I struggled with the homework. He was also an amazing athlete. He always beat me at basketball, at least at the beginning. Near the end of the year, I started to get win more often and would rub it in his face. He took great pride in his skills and didn’t like that I was teasing him about me winning. Being the snot-nosed brat I was, I started to do it more often. I thought I was getting better at basketball but looking back I don’t think that was the case. I still regret teasing him like that. But he was better than me in every way and I was happy to have finally surpassed him in one aspect. I was so focused on the fact that we were friends, I overlooked everything else.
I never questioned why he couldn’t play on Monday’s.
I never noticed how his skin got paler and paler every month.
I never noticed that he’d become quiet when I talked about my dreams for the future.
Then one day, he didn’t come to school. I figured he’d must have decided to skip the day or something. After all, it was his birthday and every kid dreams of not going to school on their birthday. I’d given him a new videogame that prior weekend, so he was probably just playing with that.
I started to get worried when he wasn’t there the next day either, so I went to his house to check on him and see if he wanted to play. Maybe he’d just lost track of time or had a busy day the day before and wanted to sleep in.
When the door opened, I was surprised to see his mom instead of John. She worked at the nearby hospital as a doctor, so she usually didn’t get home till late.
“Is Tom here...” I’d started to ask before trailing off. Her eyes were red and puffy as if she’d been crying. Even to this day I can remember the sorrow in her face. I knew something was wrong.
They moved away within the month. They told my parents that they couldn’t live with all the reminders. They saw him everywhere and couldn’t handle it.
I’d never noticed how lonely the playground was by yourself until then.
I’d never noticed how all my games were multiplayer.
I’d never noticed how you need an opponent to play basketball against.
I was alone. I’m still alone.
Sometimes I see him out of the corner of my eye. He appears at the highs and lows of my life, a skinny and pallid boy laughing and pointing. I’ve tried to move on, I really have. But no matter what I do, it feels like I cannot escape the ghost of the past.
But maybe that was a lie. Maybe I’m just scared; scared of change and scared of being happy again. I feel like I don’t deserve it. I put on a mask that I have painted on my face, never to be taken off. I’ve tricked everyone into thinking I’m fine, but I’m not. I have deceived them all with this façade I put on. Tricked them with my greatest piece of artwork yet.
It reminds me of an old myth told by Pliny the Elder. There were 2 painters, Zeuxis and Parrhasius, both renowned in their time for the detail and realism that made it seem that their paintings were real.
One day, Zeuxis painted a bushel of grapes so well that the wildlife kept on trying to eat them. He was so proud that he bragged about it for days. All the town had heard his boasting, and all the town was sick of it. The other painter, Parrhasius, was so sick of it that he stayed in his room for weeks, trying to create a masterpiece that would surpass that of Zeuxis. After he finished, Parrhasius invited Zeuxis to his studio. Upon entering, Parrhasius asked Zeuxis to open the curtain so he could see Parrhasius’ best work yet.
However, when Zeuxis moved to open the curtain, his hand hit canvas instead. Rather than a curtain, Parrhasius had created a hyper realistic painting. Zeuxis admitted defeat, claiming that while he had deceived the birds, Parrhasius had defeated him, a fellow man and artist.
I’m seventeen now. My best friend had just turned eleven.
-Tom with his paper crown shall rule the school,
A Fool