Books. Boy do I love reading books. I especially enjoy books that try to transcend genres and pose questions that other works of literary genius have yet to ask. I enjoy reading about people. More specifically, I enjoy reading books told from the viewpoint of people more miserable than myself. The reasons for this are probably very obvious, but examining yourself takes a remarkable amount of patience, tolerance and perseverance. It’s especially difficult when you hate yourself as much as I do, so reading books or watching movies about people who are significantly more lonely and depressed than I am raises my spirits and gives me hope. Hope that, no matter how much I suffer, I am still not as bad as these people. But then a painful realization strikes me, and I discover that these characters are merely fictional. A fantastic delusion conjured up by a writer looking for a quick and easy few bucks. A writer who makes money off of the misery and loneliness of others. A writer who writes about the struggles that real people go through and glorifies it, turning it into a cash cow for others’ entertainment. And I look at books, and I look at movies. And I see that all main characters these days are depressed, angsty, unlikeable teenagers who have no redeemable qualities and complain about everything, putting up a “holier than thou art” attitude that drives me absolutely mad. Take Holden Caulfield, for instance. Throughout the entire novel he is in he never once stops to think that he could be the reason that nobody wants to talk or spend time with him. He never bothers to ponder that perhaps it is his unbearable personality and unwarranted cynicism that makes him so hated, not just among characters in the book, but also among actual humans in reality. And then I think some more, and I become depressed. For I am forced to acknowledge that I am essentially Holden Caulfield. An angsty, unlikeable, friendless, lonely, sad and outright disgusting teenager who blames others for his own shortcomings because he’s too afraid to see the truth. The truth that his misery is of his own doing. Then, my eyes water, and I eventually fall asleep crying. Why are all books and movies nowadays so goddamn angst-ridden? It’s as if people think that anything that doesn’t make you want to kill yourself is a worthless piece of trash. So what if a movie makes you happy? So what if a book makes you chuckle and grin? Is that such a bad thing? Not all works of art have to be soul-crushing ballads of human frailty. Not all people want to see a movie and walk out with a sudden urge to slit their wrists. What is wrong with you, reader? Why are you even reading this, reader? Read something pleasant. Don’t read the psychotic ramblings of an entitled teenage brat.
My hands are trembling right now. It’s becoming very difficult to keep writing out my story too. The more I think about it, the more it hurts me. And the more it hurts me, the more embarrassed I am. The more embarrassed I am, the more I want to die. Boy, do I want to die. Despite that, I will discuss my advents in the cynical house of insanity where I met the girl I referred to earlier as Lily.
Lily and I met regularly, every day, for the next three weeks or so. We would sit outside of the facility, smoking cigarettes and singing songs, discussing the various anti-depressants and anxiety medications we’ve been put on, and talking about the existence of God. Occasionally, I would begin to have limited symptom attacks and my body would go out of control and twitch nervously. My face would flush and I would sweat a lot, and I’d begin grasping at the grass on the ground. I’d hyperventilate, breathing in and out, in and out. After a few minutes, it would subside, and we’d laugh it off as if it were nothing. It felt good to laugh at myself, actually. Usually, when people laugh at me, I want to run away to a tall mountain and isolate myself from the rest of the world, become a hermit and train goats. But around Lily, I felt freer than I ever had before. It was strange, and pleasant at the same time. You know what they say, though. Nothing gold can last. And so, it was then that Lily was deemed ready to leave, and we said our goodbyes.
© Copyright 2016 UN Owen. All rights reserved.
Book / Other
Short Story / Horror
Short Story / Humor
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