I Want the World to Bend to My Will Because I am a Child

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is seriously a melodramatic rant showing how incredibly immature I am.

Submitted: February 25, 2014

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Submitted: February 25, 2014



To whom this may concern, and may ever concern,

To preface this, I am going to apologize. The syntax will be erratic, and the diction, flawed. Very seldom do I ever write soliloquies bound in the first person. Being the narcissist I am, I should champion this perspective rather than eschew it to establish some semblance of validity to my words – I am a bitch: a conspiracy theorist, superiority and inferiority complex’d, doublethinking, so far off her rocker she should be institutionalized or killed bitch. Never will I apologize for how I feel, and feel free to fuck off if you feel otherwise, but I wholeheartedly regret and begrudge my sloppy usage and haphazard clauses; they are a flaw I wish I could rectify, even at the sake of being my own problem.

I spoke to a friend earlier, bless her heart – she’s always lending an ear to my inane and insane ramblings. I wish her the best, but if the world will not give her that, make her into herself and not the Plato to my Socrates: no one should bear a load so extraordinarily dense and simultaneously empty and receive a reward as full as the latter adjective. I bemoaned having to attend my assigned English class for the sake of it being populated with bright minds shrouded by thick skulls and trapped in their own large intestines, and it being lead by an apologist afraid to question the tomorrow that she could mold and sat before her. I blame not the students for what they had said, for I don’t even remember. I was far too fixated on myself, and my own demons whispering in my ear exactly what I wanted to hear. This was ego logic, plain and simple, and I succumbed to it. Sitting in a room of peers painfully unaware and myself, to the same degree, cognizant killed me inside and the air choked me just being in there. There were so many options I wish I could have taken, but I opted for the coward’s way out: I up and left.

As I trotted out, my voice remained composed as my body began to show my mental agony. My hands trembled and my movements erratic, I couldn’t focus on reality, my world was all too surreal and I wanted to live there for the rest of my days. A world that could have as many problems as the one I live in, but more importantly, I was not a part of it. I would take my dream world over reality any day. I could fuck who I want, tell anyone to fuck off as I pleased, and live in the lap of contentment. But that would border the ideas of a twisted and very pseudo-humble form of solipsism to please whatever wits (or lack thereof) that I have about me. I just wanted to not be an active part of it if I left the stage of my mind an accurate vignette of the hell I walk upon daily. I could watch as the masses nod their empty fucking skulls at the notion of everything they’re doing being right in the grander scheme of things. I could stomach the individuals who bleed vitriol vomit their shit upon their opulent floors and have blindfolded sycophants scurry on the tiles to lick it up, savoring the “enlightenment” that burns their tongues. I could even deal with men and women, arms stretched to their fullest as their toes parallel the precipice of the tallest of sky scrapers, screaming their last words of them being “truly right and just” to the God plastered with his or her face as they jump waiting to be caught by some greater ideal of no more pain, no more suffering, showing the world who’s really right, and knowing their permanent demise will mark a gravestone that their forerunners will have constructed and ended. But, post-runners will lovingly add to that list to a cause in vain to everyone involved. The world may not forget you, but the world will not care. Weak nuclear force will not cease to make sure the Potassium-40 that lies within your corpse will be forever there, for when you die, you are no longer you! You, and I, become matter without thought; the puppet master has left, and I’ll be damned if I pay for a show to watch a limp doll gather dust! I cannot kill myself because I lack the convictions you do, I cannot choke because I don’t have the strength, the courage, the gall! I have nothing, and I chase leaves blowing in the wind, tears in my eyes hoping it won’t be brown and decrepit; I chase hoping with every ounce of stupidity that maybe one time, I can finally stop running, and have mind and body rest for once.

So, as I close this act seething with melodrama and self-importance, I have nothing to ask of you. I don’t ask you to think, because far too few ever will. I don’t ask you to pity me, because I neither need, nor want it. I ask nothing, as I scream these words off my balcony, to an empty forum and sob in that moment of false clarity and reverence as I hear a faint applause in the distance.

With nothing to add,

Sybil Brenda Morrison

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