Friedrich Nietzsche
~
This ink is not dry.
Sometimes you need to switch to a new pen. She tells him about the major ideas that make up her system of beliefs and it's as if she's passionately describing the curtains of her bedroom, a bedroom in the grand castle she's been trying to escape all her life. She doesn't really want to invite him to go inside her fortress because she perceives her lonely dwelling as a weakness. Her sole desire is to show him that it's beautiful, even if she can't call it 'home'. It needs to be beautiful because it's a partial reflection of who she is up to this instant. The few dim lights are ideas of the people she loves. The rest is a bunch of character traits. The rest is history. There is a lot more to say here. There is a lot more to lie about.
The flashbacks return. The people that left your life in the ancient past return in the present moment in drops of rain that honor the scene, drops of fire that honor your cigarette's grave.
The lies don't return. They don't return because they're always there. They're always there and I just wish they'd go away. I swear that I'm not pretending. There are no lights and I'm not pretending. I'm not pretending and maybe that's why I'm tired - then again maybe not. I can't breathe. I mean I can - but not really, you know? It's not really me. Even though I'm not pretending, it's not really me.
The world is as broken as your eyes. And your body language is chaos manifest. And you can't embrace this mess of a person you've become.
Do you even know what you're doing?
These papers are so thin, so insignificant. And this ink still isn't dry.
So whether it's all about saving the world or being saved from it, narrating the supposedly compelling tale of the hero that you are or the wonderful story of the beautifully courageous people you love, or whether it's about being yourself and doing what you feel is right or about understanding the sound of this broken record that's glued to your soul, what the hell are you doing?
The headaches return. You are but the memory of a memory that died trying to remember who you once were.
But that's okay. It's always okay until it isn't anymore.
Is it time to wake up yet?
There's ink on your hands.
~
“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson