Through My Eyes
Sgt. Southern Trash. That was the new one. There are so many names they've given me…I wonder if I could write them all down…and not kill a forest. I think, that they think, I can't hear them. That I'm too busy listening to my own voice ringing in my head, to hear them.
That's not true.
Sometimes people like to think certain things…to make themselves feel better…more complete, but you know what ?…In the end…that's not true. Mystical thoughts only twist your view of reality…they make things harder when life decides to remind you that IT is in control. I know that feeling.
Too well I think.
Would it surprise them…to know what really goes on this head of mine ?
Would they accept it, and maybe even begin to understand ?
Or would they even want to try ?
Now I don't know about any of that…and I also don't know about anybody who could tell me about it either. Friends, you know, hadn't ever been my strong suit.
School was hard. Not the work, the work was the least of it all…what made it hard, was having to face all those nameless, blank expressions that turn their glassy eyes to you…stare, then look away…and like so many birds, just go whispering to each other, telling secrets that were kept from only you and would remain that way.
Was it a bad thing to try a break the shackles that held you away from everything considered desired. I guess I really wanted a friend back then. Hell…even just a dog to talk to would have been enough.
I'd forgot about it all and drowned myself into the world I'd wanted for myself…and my momma and daddy, of course. I mean what else did I have ?
I guess that …almost worked for a while, but like a high wearing off…the immediate rush was followed by a most unwanted and uncomforting crash that easily turned my life from a twisted flat road to a deadly mountain climb.
Is that supposed to happen ?
Blindness.
Rage.
Frustration.
Hopelessness.
Fright.
Submission.
Maybe they don't think it effects me ? Maybe that's it.
Just the man that lets the whole world hear him.
Hear. Not listen.
Eyes like stone can cry. Lips like lines can curve. Hearts like ice can melt.
What a bunch of gibberish. Who'd of ever thought that such a man could write such things and, even…mean them.
Maybe if they took the time to understand.
The time to listen.
But I don't think anybody would ever like to see the world through my eyes.
They might not know that I don't have any god watching over me, nor any angel.
I've learned to take it. Deal with it. The experience, though difficult, has made me strong. I don't fear it anymore. I don't let rage claw at me. I keep myself from going blind. I keep my frustration at bay.
I've found hope…but in stranger places.
For anyone else…
…it might demand too much. That's why I do what I do…and how I do it. I want them to be strong too. I want them to know how to take it, how to stay focused. Maybe I do want the whole world to hear me when I talk so loud.
After all…it never listened before.
---------------------
With a steady hand, he closes the faded green book with an ancient crack in it's spine. Placing the book in it's drawer, he reaches for the small desk lamp. It goes out, and the world goes dark. Eyes flickering in the spidering lines of hazy light protesting against his window shades. Brown glossy irises, seeing the world in a drowning black paradise. Sometimes the world was just too unforgiving to even care, he thought.
" Fine."
He moves from the window and to the side of the cold room where a thin blanket and flat pillow await atop a dead grey cot.
" But Ah'll juss' keep goin'. Doin' all these things until tha day Ah die… "
Laying down, looking at the ceiling. It'd be the same tomorrow. Maybe he'd get a new nick name…
…but nobody would ever be able to see the world…
…through his eyes.
----
IMPORTANT NOTICE. PLEASE READ :Due to the comment of a reader, who's name I will conceal, I'm making a public apology to writers : Roguedoll and The Bard, as apparently a misunderstanding has arisen. This is my first story on ff.net and I hadn't any idea about the concepts within these author's stories. The words conveyed here, are my personal inner feelings about the character himself and are not copied material. Further more, the idea of showing the personal reflections of a character in a journal-like format is not an individually copyrighted concept and should be allowed to be used freely by those who undertake the task. I was hurt to read as the comment proclaimed my thoughts stolen, indecent on lack of giving credit where credit was due, and told that my actions were a severe disappointment. Once again I apologize. I was simply writing from my heart, not from what my eyes have [ not even ] seen.
Author's Note : I'll leave it up to the readers to figure out who this is, though I think at this point, most have picked it up…I just hope it wasn't too slow for anyone. Next time I'll put him outside of his journal and into the field, then we'll see another side. I promise it. ^_-
Sgt. Southern Trash. That was the new one. There are so many names they've given me…I wonder if I could write them all down…and not kill a forest. I think, that they think, I can't hear them. That I'm too busy listening to my own voice ringing in my head, to hear them.
That's not true.
Sometimes people like to think certain things…to make themselves feel better…more complete, but you know what ?…In the end…that's not true. Mystical thoughts only twist your view of reality…they make things harder when life decides to remind you that IT is in control. I know that feeling.
Too well I think.
Would it surprise them…to know what really goes on this head of mine ?
Would they accept it, and maybe even begin to understand ?
Or would they even want to try ?
Now I don't know about any of that…and I also don't know about anybody who could tell me about it either. Friends, you know, hadn't ever been my strong suit.
School was hard. Not the work, the work was the least of it all…what made it hard, was having to face all those nameless, blank expressions that turn their glassy eyes to you…stare, then look away…and like so many birds, just go whispering to each other, telling secrets that were kept from only you and would remain that way.
Was it a bad thing to try a break the shackles that held you away from everything considered desired. I guess I really wanted a friend back then. Hell…even just a dog to talk to would have been enough.
I'd forgot about it all and drowned myself into the world I'd wanted for myself…and my momma and daddy, of course. I mean what else did I have ?
I guess that …almost worked for a while, but like a high wearing off…the immediate rush was followed by a most unwanted and uncomforting crash that easily turned my life from a twisted flat road to a deadly mountain climb.
Is that supposed to happen ?
Blindness.
Rage.
Frustration.
Hopelessness.
Fright.
Submission.
Maybe they don't think it effects me ? Maybe that's it.
Just the man that lets the whole world hear him.
Hear. Not listen.
Eyes like stone can cry. Lips like lines can curve. Hearts like ice can melt.
What a bunch of gibberish. Who'd of ever thought that such a man could write such things and, even…mean them.
Maybe if they took the time to understand.
The time to listen.
But I don't think anybody would ever like to see the world through my eyes.
They might not know that I don't have any god watching over me, nor any angel.
I've learned to take it. Deal with it. The experience, though difficult, has made me strong. I don't fear it anymore. I don't let rage claw at me. I keep myself from going blind. I keep my frustration at bay.
I've found hope…but in stranger places.
For anyone else…
…it might demand too much. That's why I do what I do…and how I do it. I want them to be strong too. I want them to know how to take it, how to stay focused. Maybe I do want the whole world to hear me when I talk so loud.
After all…it never listened before.
---------------------
With a steady hand, he closes the faded green book with an ancient crack in it's spine. Placing the book in it's drawer, he reaches for the small desk lamp. It goes out, and the world goes dark. Eyes flickering in the spidering lines of hazy light protesting against his window shades. Brown glossy irises, seeing the world in a drowning black paradise. Sometimes the world was just too unforgiving to even care, he thought.
" Fine."
He moves from the window and to the side of the cold room where a thin blanket and flat pillow await atop a dead grey cot.
" But Ah'll juss' keep goin'. Doin' all these things until tha day Ah die… "
Laying down, looking at the ceiling. It'd be the same tomorrow. Maybe he'd get a new nick name…
…but nobody would ever be able to see the world…
…through his eyes.
----
IMPORTANT NOTICE. PLEASE READ :Due to the comment of a reader, who's name I will conceal, I'm making a public apology to writers : Roguedoll and The Bard, as apparently a misunderstanding has arisen. This is my first story on ff.net and I hadn't any idea about the concepts within these author's stories. The words conveyed here, are my personal inner feelings about the character himself and are not copied material. Further more, the idea of showing the personal reflections of a character in a journal-like format is not an individually copyrighted concept and should be allowed to be used freely by those who undertake the task. I was hurt to read as the comment proclaimed my thoughts stolen, indecent on lack of giving credit where credit was due, and told that my actions were a severe disappointment. Once again I apologize. I was simply writing from my heart, not from what my eyes have [ not even ] seen.
Author's Note : I'll leave it up to the readers to figure out who this is, though I think at this point, most have picked it up…I just hope it wasn't too slow for anyone. Next time I'll put him outside of his journal and into the field, then we'll see another side. I promise it. ^_-