posted on Sep, 13 2004 @ 04:46 PM
Chapter 9: If You See an Emo Kid With a Grey Jacket, Tell Him Hello For Me
Every day, there are dozens of people we walk by that will somehow change the face of the earth, and weíll never even know. Today I passed by a girl
with blueberry eyes and a sunflower smile and decided that Iíll meet her again, but I wonít remember seeing her now. Itís too bad we canít talk to all
of these people.
Itís too bad that even if we did, they probably wouldnít talk back.
Inset- Poetic Epiphany 5: Thereís a Difference Between Remembering and Having a Memory
Love is not a thing to be tampered with, unlike infatuation. Infatuation is like Coca Cola, everybody loves the original, but everybody also loves the
crazy, kinky flavors like Vanilla and Cherry. But love is like Pepsi, you might get it confused with Coke by appearance, but when you taste it, you
just know. Love is pure, Vanilla Pepsi is sickening, and if you want diet, well, letís just say your priorities are backwards.
There are periods in my life I never want to forget, but writing them down makes it seem like I have to try. There is a time in my life that I donít
even want to mention, simply because it is all mine. Ask me about it, Iíll tell you a million stories. But never ask me to relive it. Because that
would be like Crystal Pepsi, and we all know how long that lasted.
So this chapter is an insert for that period in time Iím going to skip over, because I didnít want to simply not mention it. I just donít want to have
to explain anything to you, because no matter how much you think you understand, you know nothing, and none of your fantasies will ever compare.
YEAR 2 eh?
Prolouge: Don't Use Flourescent Highlighters When Normal Yellow Will Do
Just ignore him, it makes things so much easier.
Don't talk to him, that way you won't think about it as much.
Pretend you hate him, pretend he's a bastard, pretend that none of it was real. This will make everything go away.
-I've never heard anything more irreverent, have you?-
There is no way to break life into plot diagrams or people into character analysis. Our personal epiphanies are not made to fit a universal theme and
motifs are never as blatant as we wish they would be. Symbols do not come with "Meaning Here" signs and things don't always happen for a
theatrical, or grammatical, reason.
If this is true, than the space between reality and literature shall never be breached. These two worlds live equally, yet separately, and shall never
integrate. Words and moving pictures do not enjoy to get along, do not enjoy to dance intertwined, and do not enjoy this life in which they do not
understand. But through giving (or taking away) this joy, those same words on a page have become real, become beings, become human. These words that
survive are only the most beautiful, only the most intangible and able to morph to the human form without worry.
I am Beaupastract. That's what was written on that strip of blue paper several days after it was found. Beautiful+Passionate+Abstract.
But that paper had been gone for some time, it was discarded in the other stockpiles of remembrance and nostalgia. Letters, poems, dreams, loves,
affairs, loves, plans, sacrifices, loves, loves, loves. I had never felt beautiful. Beautiful+Passionate+Abstract, not until that moment.
And then it was gone. The sunflower that made my heart skip 3 beats, the roses that were hidden from view of the non-accepting, the art was taken off
the shelves, the scribes torn out of diaries, all gone.
Where is beauty? Where is passion? Where is abstraction?
Where has my soul run off to?
Well, it ran right into the hands of angry parents and then proceeded to the trashcan, along with a $150 skateboard covered in shag carpet. Sure,
there was tons of sneaking around; passionate, forbidden, until eventually the hatred in one area of my life outwieghed the love in another, and all
But time continues to drip in its never-ending cascade of acid rain and voodoo doll notebooks until, lo and behold, I'm lying in someone else's arms
and someone else is looking at the bumps on his cieling.