A long way from all I've ever know in reality is my mind, full of pain and
misery and death. I have my own movies that I play in my head. They involve
death, suicide, funerals. I had music that plays to go with these scenes
and they tend to be in black and white. A lot of the time I just sit and
think about things, sometimes nothing in general, too. Just sit and absorb
the momentary moment of peace in my mind, when I'm freed from the shackles
of myself and my reality. I never really free myself, but for a moment I
think that maybe I'm flying free of my physical body that restrains me from
soaring. The imagination can only bring you so far, but its good enough
till I can be free. So I sit and imagine fleeing from the harsh cold world
and soaring over the ocean, a bird, then a dolphin and seeing the depths of
the ocean. Manacles gone, my soul free of the thought that depress me so,
the bellows of pain that sent it to overwhelm me. My soul, if only for a
minute, is free. Free from all the memories, free of all the hurt, free of
all the pain. Free, floating and soaring through the universe, I am simply
another dreamer who has found their escape. The imagination. Though it I
soar and fly and never for a moment leave me place, physically. No one can
bother me here. I am the singular being and this is my space.
For the rare moment I feel that I am needed, that for one singular moment I belong and people want me there, for who I am and not just out of pity for my status as an Outcast. Outcast. I hear people talk about me in the halls and in class and stuff. Do they think I'm deaf? I hear exactly what they say. I don't like it, but what the hell am I going to do about it? I can't change their minds anymore than I can change who I am. I am like the uncatchable virus that they always fear they will get anyway. Like the vulnerable American society they would get the Black Plague. Ruled by media and paranoid writers and parents they shy from the abnormal, the unknown. They lash out because they fear. I don't blame them, but I don't pity them either. They could break out of their little snow globe if they pleased, but they don't because they know they won't like what they see, on their deep subconscious levels. They wish to live in a world of ignorant bliss.
But do they have to lash out when someone dares to threaten the peace of their snow globe? All I wanted to do was to see what they saw, for a moment. Look through the eyes of those who were different. Curiosity killed the Kat. How painfully true. Painfully, hurtfully, soul ripping. Call it whatever the hell you want, it hurts. I wanted to be accepted into the world that I was rightfully never part of. I don't know what made me so different, but they saw something there. Maybe they're just hawks. No, hawks are to grand of a word for them. More like vultures. Preying on the weak when they don't already prey on what's dead. They brag and puff up their chest and talk about the world and how knowledgeable they are, but what do they know about the world? They've only ever seen the inside of their little snow globes. They've never bothered to look beyond themselves, and they've made others pay. How don't I know that there aren't others like me? Crying in the cold, comfortless bathrooms over the pain that others have thrust upon them as they shredded their preys soul to broken remnants of what used to be a human. Shattering dreams and killing all the hope till there's only a shell of what used to be a real person. They walk around carrying the memories until they give into a force that no longer exits, yet still has a hold on them from its grave. You don't see it until it's too late to save them from themselves and the force that hurt them so much. But you can tell, even if you never realize it. Its in the dull shine of their eyes, the slouch of their shoulders, the way that their face is always hidden in a dark shroud of self hatred and sadness. You'll see it, if you only look. They won't look you in your eyes. They're afraid of what they'll see. They might see the intense cruelty of the world that battered them to the charred, rough, hurting people they are. There's nothing you can do. They're gone already. They've had enough. The storm may have passed, but the damage has been done. They'll never forget, and if they do they never feel whole, complete. It's never gone, no matter what they try, no matter how much they try, no matter how much anyone tries, they'll always have an empty place that will never be filled. What good will it be now? You can repair and rebuild but it will never be okay. They'll always be broken beyond repair like some toy. Sew it back up as you please, but You'll still see it. But what hurts more is when no one cares even after it. The loneliness will hurt more then the worlds. How can you even tell how they feel when you don't care? How do you know if they hurt or if they're happy? You don't care if they cry. It's not your problem. But do you know how much it hurts? A smile can keep them alive for another day, but you won't grace them with that it hurts more. It'll get to be to much someday and you won't care what you caused. They'll have died of loneliness. Off in your own little world where only who likes who matters and whether you're grounded or not it doesn't matter! They'll keep it locked it up inside. They don't want your pity. They want kindness. Just a friend. They won't let you see them cry. They'll lock it up inside them until their shameful secret kills them. You'll hear it on the news. Some poor kid killed himself or herself again. You'll sob for the camera's, tell how much you feel sorry for them, how you would have been nicer, how you never got to know that poor quiet kid who always had their nose stuck into a book or a magazine or a videogame. But you wouldn't have. Bowling for Columbine. They never knew at Columbine, they all thought. They said they never would have guessed. But they knew. They didn't care though. They didn't have anything left. They hurt. Why do you think the last two people they killed were themselves? Why? Do you think they were proud? Do you think pleasure evoked the hate that made Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold kill? I know what made them kill and I have it inside me too. I restrain all the hurt and pain and hate that I have. It won't last forever, but until I can find some way, then it will have to do. For now the drums and voices of my music will have to do. I'll write and I'll listen to the world's other outcasts and I'll wait till the day comes that I have the same hate that created that one fateful day and then I'll find another way. But I'll never give in to all that swamps me. If I kill I'll be just as bad. Ill just eliminate the source. Not them. No, I'll never find them all and it won't stop them from creating others like me and Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold and all the others. But, I can at least stop myself from making the same mistake. My life will take a different, but similar path. When the time comes, people will sob in front of the cameras, say how much they'll miss the quiet, odd girl in the corner, how they never would have been so ' mean and cruel' to her and way up from where ever I am I'll laugh. It'll just be another story to add to some bull-shit reporters resume and another story to add to someone's journal. All I'll be is a casket in the ground, a memory to cherish and a lesson that no one will learn. Just like all the others before me, who came into a world that didn't care.
For the rare moment I feel that I am needed, that for one singular moment I belong and people want me there, for who I am and not just out of pity for my status as an Outcast. Outcast. I hear people talk about me in the halls and in class and stuff. Do they think I'm deaf? I hear exactly what they say. I don't like it, but what the hell am I going to do about it? I can't change their minds anymore than I can change who I am. I am like the uncatchable virus that they always fear they will get anyway. Like the vulnerable American society they would get the Black Plague. Ruled by media and paranoid writers and parents they shy from the abnormal, the unknown. They lash out because they fear. I don't blame them, but I don't pity them either. They could break out of their little snow globe if they pleased, but they don't because they know they won't like what they see, on their deep subconscious levels. They wish to live in a world of ignorant bliss.
But do they have to lash out when someone dares to threaten the peace of their snow globe? All I wanted to do was to see what they saw, for a moment. Look through the eyes of those who were different. Curiosity killed the Kat. How painfully true. Painfully, hurtfully, soul ripping. Call it whatever the hell you want, it hurts. I wanted to be accepted into the world that I was rightfully never part of. I don't know what made me so different, but they saw something there. Maybe they're just hawks. No, hawks are to grand of a word for them. More like vultures. Preying on the weak when they don't already prey on what's dead. They brag and puff up their chest and talk about the world and how knowledgeable they are, but what do they know about the world? They've only ever seen the inside of their little snow globes. They've never bothered to look beyond themselves, and they've made others pay. How don't I know that there aren't others like me? Crying in the cold, comfortless bathrooms over the pain that others have thrust upon them as they shredded their preys soul to broken remnants of what used to be a human. Shattering dreams and killing all the hope till there's only a shell of what used to be a real person. They walk around carrying the memories until they give into a force that no longer exits, yet still has a hold on them from its grave. You don't see it until it's too late to save them from themselves and the force that hurt them so much. But you can tell, even if you never realize it. Its in the dull shine of their eyes, the slouch of their shoulders, the way that their face is always hidden in a dark shroud of self hatred and sadness. You'll see it, if you only look. They won't look you in your eyes. They're afraid of what they'll see. They might see the intense cruelty of the world that battered them to the charred, rough, hurting people they are. There's nothing you can do. They're gone already. They've had enough. The storm may have passed, but the damage has been done. They'll never forget, and if they do they never feel whole, complete. It's never gone, no matter what they try, no matter how much they try, no matter how much anyone tries, they'll always have an empty place that will never be filled. What good will it be now? You can repair and rebuild but it will never be okay. They'll always be broken beyond repair like some toy. Sew it back up as you please, but You'll still see it. But what hurts more is when no one cares even after it. The loneliness will hurt more then the worlds. How can you even tell how they feel when you don't care? How do you know if they hurt or if they're happy? You don't care if they cry. It's not your problem. But do you know how much it hurts? A smile can keep them alive for another day, but you won't grace them with that it hurts more. It'll get to be to much someday and you won't care what you caused. They'll have died of loneliness. Off in your own little world where only who likes who matters and whether you're grounded or not it doesn't matter! They'll keep it locked it up inside. They don't want your pity. They want kindness. Just a friend. They won't let you see them cry. They'll lock it up inside them until their shameful secret kills them. You'll hear it on the news. Some poor kid killed himself or herself again. You'll sob for the camera's, tell how much you feel sorry for them, how you would have been nicer, how you never got to know that poor quiet kid who always had their nose stuck into a book or a magazine or a videogame. But you wouldn't have. Bowling for Columbine. They never knew at Columbine, they all thought. They said they never would have guessed. But they knew. They didn't care though. They didn't have anything left. They hurt. Why do you think the last two people they killed were themselves? Why? Do you think they were proud? Do you think pleasure evoked the hate that made Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold kill? I know what made them kill and I have it inside me too. I restrain all the hurt and pain and hate that I have. It won't last forever, but until I can find some way, then it will have to do. For now the drums and voices of my music will have to do. I'll write and I'll listen to the world's other outcasts and I'll wait till the day comes that I have the same hate that created that one fateful day and then I'll find another way. But I'll never give in to all that swamps me. If I kill I'll be just as bad. Ill just eliminate the source. Not them. No, I'll never find them all and it won't stop them from creating others like me and Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold and all the others. But, I can at least stop myself from making the same mistake. My life will take a different, but similar path. When the time comes, people will sob in front of the cameras, say how much they'll miss the quiet, odd girl in the corner, how they never would have been so ' mean and cruel' to her and way up from where ever I am I'll laugh. It'll just be another story to add to some bull-shit reporters resume and another story to add to someone's journal. All I'll be is a casket in the ground, a memory to cherish and a lesson that no one will learn. Just like all the others before me, who came into a world that didn't care.