The Filthy Hands of Despair

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 26, 2016

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Submitted: October 26, 2016



(A young woman's journal entry, October 25th, 2016)  

On those days I saw love in his eyes. 
Now I see two flames extinguished. Or rather I see flames of a different kind. They do not warm my bones yet consume me all the same. The pale flames of his despair lick away o so gently at my soul, and I feel the cold all over. I feel the shiver all over. Perhaps it is doubt and not despair that seizes every muscle, but I doubt that I have ever been doubtful of my own actions, at least not consciously. Yet my body aches when I think about how every move I make is magnified under a crooked microscope, analyzed like some cursed artifact rather than taken at face value. My words are also subject to the same cruel scrutiny. I have to be careful lest they offend too much or too little - they need to offend him just the right amount. Otherwise the flames of unjustified despair will spread throughout his body, and I have to be there to endure the cold heat, to nurse him back to a state of sanity before the flames burn him alive. But how long will it take for me to crack? The more I try to get close and the harder I try to understand, the colder the flames become. So cold that even with a gentle touch I can feel the crippling chill. Last time I saw him he looked away as I said goodbye as if punishing me for something I hadn't done. I left in a bewildered state of mind. Had I really done or said something wrong? Was it the way I spoke that bothered him? Or did it have something to do with not including him in things he wanted to be included in? But he was the one who had shown multiple times through his actions that he wanted to be left out. And now he longs to be a part of what he once said he despised. What is the deal with that? If you don't want to do something, then just don't do it. I shiver as these thoughts go through my head. I am getting cold just thinking about that dead look of despair in his eyes. Being an adventurous woman of 24, I need something more. I deserve to look at a man and recall a crisp autumn afternoon rather than being reminded of heavy clouds and pregnant weather. Perhaps I could find a man of 27 or 28 with curly hair and dreamy eyes, in which I see a reflection of my own sunny disposition. I need a man who can play The Smiths on the guitar and smiles as he does so. I would then kiss his smile and put my head on his shoulder, knowing that he could be there for me and display his love like a normal human being. 
I want to be close to a man whose flame is neither too hot nor too cold. 
I am weary of being someone else's anchor, so I will go to the man with the guitar, the man who knows how to bring out the best in me. Whereas one man will be expanding his mind to have a better future, the other one, the one whom I have always had to lull  back into reality, is wasting away his time as usual. 
Knowing him, he is most likely sitting down and writing a piece from my perspective, as if he could know what it feels like to truly be in my shoes - another sure sign of a self-absorbed narcissist, thinking that the world is his, and if not then it must be his, must revolve around his fingertip. But today is the last day I speak or even think of him. It is time to go out there and chase after what I deserve, which is a happiness untainted by the filthy hands of his despair. 

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