Pain

The same problem tears me to pieces inside, and I'm left to wonder...--Same Problem, Waking Ashland

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In having to do another writing project for my CW class online, I found myself looking through my old journals. What I found surprised even me. It was a story I was going to write and have published; I felt it was the right thing to do at the time, but I never got around to finishing it. I don't remember why, actually, but I think it had something to do with the strong feelings it was eliciting in my heart. I remember telling myself I had to finish something else first, and I can recall reading the book A Separate Peace during that time. They were connected, somehow, the events of that year, and the book, but I wasn't sure. I had to finish reading that story again before I could put mine to paper.

There was a lot of dirt I was going to dig up on people around me, and I wasn't sure if I had the guts to do it. I couldn't bring myself to tear down and expose the naked truth of those who had dressed me up in follies and lies. The act of doing so seemed barbaric, as if I were fighting fire with fire. Sure, it makes sense: if there are lies, then tell the truth. But what if the truth was much harder to believe than the very pretense of it? What if everything around you had already been lost to those lies? The answer seems obvious, doesn't it? It seems like it would be a redeeming act to tell the truth and try to salvage what had been lost. The word "seems" is too prevalent.

I had lost almost everything in one fatal swoop. I was left alone by those near enough to lend comfort, and the ones who did were either gone or leaving the land of the eternal gray, the land that we live in now. The sky here is gray; either it is a pretense to a glorious dawn, or the failing light of day, and the night brings more sorrow than anyone can imagine. I cannot claim the rights to that bit of illustrative narration, because I borrowed it from a greater man, but perhaps it can be used to describe this city to a better effect. Most here are only feigning love, and half-truths form a rampant beast that devours the hearts of the innocent. It is a vampire that feeds on the living, and leaves behind it empty shells to rise again and repeat the same unfortunate events to the least suspecting.

It is funny, though, how one small piece of unfinished writing can cause so much pain.