(Artists of four-song playlist [in order]: Brett Dennen, Regina Spektor, Third Day, and Keane)
Is it more mature
To reflect
on self
or bigger concepts?
Is it more important
to learn from personal experience
or from the history all around you?
A look in the mirror
or the sound of gunfire from every generation.
What meaning can we extract
from everything
our senses perceive?
The private tragedy,
The public outrage,
a friend's rebellious word,
a world leader's command?
Who are we
what right have we
to judge
or to question?
What right have we not,
to judge
or to question?
Right and wrong
are different.
Depending on where you are.
Black and white,
a muddled gray.
Left is right,
right is left,
up is down,
down is up.
Distracted by aesthetics.
Distracted by the trivial.
Slam our faces in reality,
Escape into fantasy.
Defense mechanism.
What is real
what is not?
no.
direction.
But
there is.
even if that Direction
is often
denied.
Doubt comes easy
with all that's around us,
but there's the beauty
rising from ashes.
The Constant
that keeps us,
from going insane.
when everything else
threatens to topple us
all
to the ground.
How do we grow?
What makes us grow the most?
the fires that burn and make the soil fertile.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Related Items
"What are you talking about?" he said. This couldn't possibly be happening. It simply was not possible. All this time, he'd wanted to ignore the signs.
"I'm sorry," she replied, her tone of voice contrary and strong. She'd been planning this for quite a while. This had been going on for quite a while, and he knew it, he just didn't want to believe it.
"But... It's been... We've been together so... So long," he said, struggling to keep under control.
"I know. But... We just can't go on like this. Or, I just can't go on like this."
"What do you even mean?"
"You know what I mean... That... this just isn't going to work out."
"No, no, we've... it's been..."
He wanted to ignore the signs. He wanted his waves of denial back. It was so much easier, thinking that everything was fine, that they would last until they died.
"I know, I know, we've been together a long time. But... I just... This isn't sustainable for us anymore."
"What do you mean? Is there..." Could he say it? "Is there someone else?"
His wife sighed.
"No, no, there's no one else... Not like you think..."
"Well, what do I think then?" he said, unable to keep the anger and panic from his voice.
"You think... It was... I've never cheated on you."
"But you've thought of other people..."
This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. They'd been together for over ten years. This couldn't be happening... not now... He knew they'd been young when they'd gotten together, but...
"Yes, I have. I can't keep being in a relationship like this one."
All he could do was stare. That voice he'd once found so sweet, was now the knife twisting in his stomach.
"I... I mean, I love you. I always will. But I just can't do this anymore..."
He swallowed.
"Why didn't you... Why didn't you tell me earlier? Why did you take so long?" he said, his trembling fingers gripping a counter, fighting tears.
"I'm sorry," she replied softly. "I just... I knew you would be upset."
He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, "Well of course I'm upset, it's been over ten years! What are you thinking? We've been married for more than a decade! Everything's been fine! I don't even know where this came from! How could you do this to us?!"
But he didn't. He gripped the counter harder.
"Well... Yeah, I am. But... If you just would have... If you would have said..." he choked out.
"Look..." his wife replied, placing her hand on his shoulder, as if it would comfort him now. "You know... things have been... difficult lately."
The pitying hand on his shoulder. He thought back to her previous relationships... so many boyfriends before him, she was already divorced once. Why would she do this? Everything had seemed great...
He shook off her hand.
"I know that they have. I know! But you could've at least told me sooner! I know you haven't been thinking this for just... for a few weeks or something. You wouldn't just... You wouldn't... I can't believe you, I really can't!" He said, launching off the counter and passed his wife.
He could hardly see her, as she stood there biting her lip.
"How could you do this? Why? Why are you doing this?!"
"Because! You know why! You know it hasn't been working out. How could you possibly delude yourself enough to think we were doing fine? I told you almost everything I could..."
He eyed the proverbial suitcase-in-her-hand. It was light blue, stuffed with all she thought she'd need.
"But the fact that you wanted to leave me for years never crossed your mind as something to tell me? You just decide to spring it on me?" With every word, he stepped closer to her. Her eyes widened, presumably with fear. But he couldn't stay angry... He couldn't... He stumbled back from her, as if he had been punched in the gut, taking his face in hands, as he stumbled to the floor. "I... I just don't understand... What did I do? What did I do to... What did I do to deserve... I... I'm sorry," he choked his words through uncontrollable sobs. Once more, he felt her hand on his shoulder, but didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to him. "You didn't do anything wrong... this... this isn't your fault."
She kissed him gently on the top of his head, before he heard her footsteps grow distant, her hand turn the front doorknob, the door shutting, car door opening... closing... the sound of her driving away.
And then it was over. But he would never let it be over. As he cried on the floor, he started to figure out ways to bring her back... he needed her... and he'd failed her.
A Poem
Always there
Full of wisdom
Full of everything
needed to be heard.
Always just
A phone call away.
Always
not too far away.
With the right words to say.
So gentle, kind,
Humor at hand.
Exactly who is needed.
Thank you, Lord,
For those you've placed within my life
For those
who are there.
"I'm sorry," she replied, her tone of voice contrary and strong. She'd been planning this for quite a while. This had been going on for quite a while, and he knew it, he just didn't want to believe it.
"But... It's been... We've been together so... So long," he said, struggling to keep under control.
"I know. But... We just can't go on like this. Or, I just can't go on like this."
"What do you even mean?"
"You know what I mean... That... this just isn't going to work out."
"No, no, we've... it's been..."
He wanted to ignore the signs. He wanted his waves of denial back. It was so much easier, thinking that everything was fine, that they would last until they died.
"I know, I know, we've been together a long time. But... I just... This isn't sustainable for us anymore."
"What do you mean? Is there..." Could he say it? "Is there someone else?"
His wife sighed.
"No, no, there's no one else... Not like you think..."
"Well, what do I think then?" he said, unable to keep the anger and panic from his voice.
"You think... It was... I've never cheated on you."
"But you've thought of other people..."
This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. They'd been together for over ten years. This couldn't be happening... not now... He knew they'd been young when they'd gotten together, but...
"Yes, I have. I can't keep being in a relationship like this one."
All he could do was stare. That voice he'd once found so sweet, was now the knife twisting in his stomach.
"I... I mean, I love you. I always will. But I just can't do this anymore..."
He swallowed.
"Why didn't you... Why didn't you tell me earlier? Why did you take so long?" he said, his trembling fingers gripping a counter, fighting tears.
"I'm sorry," she replied softly. "I just... I knew you would be upset."
He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, "Well of course I'm upset, it's been over ten years! What are you thinking? We've been married for more than a decade! Everything's been fine! I don't even know where this came from! How could you do this to us?!"
But he didn't. He gripped the counter harder.
"Well... Yeah, I am. But... If you just would have... If you would have said..." he choked out.
"Look..." his wife replied, placing her hand on his shoulder, as if it would comfort him now. "You know... things have been... difficult lately."
The pitying hand on his shoulder. He thought back to her previous relationships... so many boyfriends before him, she was already divorced once. Why would she do this? Everything had seemed great...
He shook off her hand.
"I know that they have. I know! But you could've at least told me sooner! I know you haven't been thinking this for just... for a few weeks or something. You wouldn't just... You wouldn't... I can't believe you, I really can't!" He said, launching off the counter and passed his wife.
He could hardly see her, as she stood there biting her lip.
"How could you do this? Why? Why are you doing this?!"
"Because! You know why! You know it hasn't been working out. How could you possibly delude yourself enough to think we were doing fine? I told you almost everything I could..."
He eyed the proverbial suitcase-in-her-hand. It was light blue, stuffed with all she thought she'd need.
"But the fact that you wanted to leave me for years never crossed your mind as something to tell me? You just decide to spring it on me?" With every word, he stepped closer to her. Her eyes widened, presumably with fear. But he couldn't stay angry... He couldn't... He stumbled back from her, as if he had been punched in the gut, taking his face in hands, as he stumbled to the floor. "I... I just don't understand... What did I do? What did I do to... What did I do to deserve... I... I'm sorry," he choked his words through uncontrollable sobs. Once more, he felt her hand on his shoulder, but didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to him. "You didn't do anything wrong... this... this isn't your fault."
She kissed him gently on the top of his head, before he heard her footsteps grow distant, her hand turn the front doorknob, the door shutting, car door opening... closing... the sound of her driving away.
And then it was over. But he would never let it be over. As he cried on the floor, he started to figure out ways to bring her back... he needed her... and he'd failed her.
A Poem
Always there
Full of wisdom
Full of everything
needed to be heard.
Always just
A phone call away.
Always
not too far away.
With the right words to say.
So gentle, kind,
Humor at hand.
Exactly who is needed.
Thank you, Lord,
For those you've placed within my life
For those
who are there.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
"Mess"
I know what he said was something that would get most people to worry, if he was serious. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just joking around, as people do. As I, and others around him, as well as my other friends, have been known to do.
Joke about things that aren't funny.
But there was just an edge to it that seemed... real. Too genuine. Too much a real desire to do this.
You don't joke about that. You just don't.
It all started with a conversation about The Things They Carried, the book I was reading. The book was about the Vietnam War, but moreso, a fictional group of soldiers who served in it, told from the perspective of a writer who holds the same name as the actual author of the book. But that wasn't exactly relevant.
I don't remember all the dialogue, but I know the conversation digressed.
My friend, he said he'd serve in a war if he believed in the cause. He said he'd kill someone. The idea of killing people, lately, to me, had caused me to ponder the great distress that those who do kill, those who kill and don't want to kill--whether by war, or through accidents, or even those who think they're in the right by the act of euthanasia, or even those who commit suicide...
I continued asking him about things.
Eventually, he was outright saying it.
That he wants to kill someone. Keep in mind, the tone of conversation had not yet gotten very serious. Of course it hadn't. We were just talking.
I do remember this, however. Essentially, this is what was said:
Me: "Would you kill a child?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "An infant?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "A friend?"
Him: "Yeah."
Affirmative answers, whether they were "yeah's" or "yes's" or anything of the sort. For once, my friend who once, very often, casually would make a fake gun with his fingers and point it to his head and say "I'm done" after me or someone else being obnoxious, actually scared me. We were always joking. Him, and I, and others. Joking about lots of weird things, lots of sadistic things, gruesome things that, when intergrated with real life, were just plain sad and tragic and disgusting.
He said he just wanted to have the experience of killing someone before he died. Whether it be by an "accident" or war.
"I've got to do one of those murder-suicide things someday."
He says he lives off of anime and video games. That atheism and anime made him stop being depressed and suicidal.
"Would you kill a friend?"
"Yes."
I can never tell if he's being serious or not.
When I told the counselor, I never intended for her to tell the principal. The principal and the counselor didn't want to get the other friend I'd told involved.
The principal told me my friend who wanted to someday experience the feeling of killing someone was at home sick. He told me that he called my friend's mom.
After meeting with both of them, I went straight to the nurse's office. She called my mom. My mom said I could go home. I went back to English, showed my pass to the teacher, spoke quickly to another friend, gathered my things, and walked straight home.
I thought I was going to cry. But I didn't cry. I just walked straight from school, down two streets, through my front door, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. I deliberated two hours before eventually falling asleep.
My other friend, the only other person who really knew, he texted me. He told me the school officer had spoken to him.
No. The principal and the counselor hadn't wanted this friend to get involved.
Stupidly, I continued the conversation. Asked him how he knew. The officer had called him into his office.
The next day, rumors were spread, as I watched House and did Geometry at home. I was "sick", after all. I had been coughing, and sniffling and sneezing, and my throat had been at best, scratchy, for the past three weeks.
I thought he was suspended, because my other friend sent me that text. Then he revealed that was a rumor.
Rumors.
Funny how "rumor" is one letter away from "tumor". No matter how little had spread, these rumor-tumors could grow into full-blown cancer, all over the student body... and, after all, my potentially homicidal friend and I had been sick, for at least a day and a half (two days for him).
So then, it turns out he wasn't suspended. But the rumors had already started...
Yesterday, I pondered all about how this would ruin our friendship, at the very LEAST. How he wouldn't trust me with anything ever again if he ever figured out who "reported" him. How this decision would either be a completely unnecessary mess that destroys friendships and trust and drives tragedy, or a mess that does the same, but saves a life.
But he'd joked more about killing himself than killing someone else. And he told me how he'd been genuinely depressed and suicidal before. He was still depressed, I'd say. Perhaps. I wasn't sure.
He was so offended when the speaker came to school, and told her story of experience with mental illness, with depression, and suicide... how she'd said one could not handle depression on their own. He was so offended because he believed he'd treated his own depression.
Anime and video games were his cure. It wasn't drugs, or partying, or running away, or avoiding everything in the world, but it was certainly not a long-term treatment. I have nothing against them, but I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the concept that a serious mental illness could be treated on one's own. That any serious issue could be dealt with solely on one's own, really.
Now you wouldn't think he was depressed, really, if you met him. If you were one of his friends. You might think he had a sick sense of humor, is all. Or you would laugh and joke along with him, as I have for a while now.
And now I've screwed it all up. Unintentionally, things have started to unravel, and both of us have been absent.
No one knows that I was the one who talked. Neither the principal nor I know how those words got out enough to even start rumors.
I'm going back tomorrow. I'm going back tomorrow, and I'm going to talk to the principal and the counselor again. The principal's gonna call his parents again.
I've made a mess. I can only hope it'll do more good than harm.
Joke about things that aren't funny.
But there was just an edge to it that seemed... real. Too genuine. Too much a real desire to do this.
You don't joke about that. You just don't.
It all started with a conversation about The Things They Carried, the book I was reading. The book was about the Vietnam War, but moreso, a fictional group of soldiers who served in it, told from the perspective of a writer who holds the same name as the actual author of the book. But that wasn't exactly relevant.
I don't remember all the dialogue, but I know the conversation digressed.
My friend, he said he'd serve in a war if he believed in the cause. He said he'd kill someone. The idea of killing people, lately, to me, had caused me to ponder the great distress that those who do kill, those who kill and don't want to kill--whether by war, or through accidents, or even those who think they're in the right by the act of euthanasia, or even those who commit suicide...
I continued asking him about things.
Eventually, he was outright saying it.
That he wants to kill someone. Keep in mind, the tone of conversation had not yet gotten very serious. Of course it hadn't. We were just talking.
I do remember this, however. Essentially, this is what was said:
Me: "Would you kill a child?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "An infant?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "A friend?"
Him: "Yeah."
Affirmative answers, whether they were "yeah's" or "yes's" or anything of the sort. For once, my friend who once, very often, casually would make a fake gun with his fingers and point it to his head and say "I'm done" after me or someone else being obnoxious, actually scared me. We were always joking. Him, and I, and others. Joking about lots of weird things, lots of sadistic things, gruesome things that, when intergrated with real life, were just plain sad and tragic and disgusting.
He said he just wanted to have the experience of killing someone before he died. Whether it be by an "accident" or war.
"I've got to do one of those murder-suicide things someday."
He says he lives off of anime and video games. That atheism and anime made him stop being depressed and suicidal.
"Would you kill a friend?"
"Yes."
I can never tell if he's being serious or not.
When I told the counselor, I never intended for her to tell the principal. The principal and the counselor didn't want to get the other friend I'd told involved.
The principal told me my friend who wanted to someday experience the feeling of killing someone was at home sick. He told me that he called my friend's mom.
After meeting with both of them, I went straight to the nurse's office. She called my mom. My mom said I could go home. I went back to English, showed my pass to the teacher, spoke quickly to another friend, gathered my things, and walked straight home.
I thought I was going to cry. But I didn't cry. I just walked straight from school, down two streets, through my front door, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. I deliberated two hours before eventually falling asleep.
My other friend, the only other person who really knew, he texted me. He told me the school officer had spoken to him.
No. The principal and the counselor hadn't wanted this friend to get involved.
Stupidly, I continued the conversation. Asked him how he knew. The officer had called him into his office.
The next day, rumors were spread, as I watched House and did Geometry at home. I was "sick", after all. I had been coughing, and sniffling and sneezing, and my throat had been at best, scratchy, for the past three weeks.
I thought he was suspended, because my other friend sent me that text. Then he revealed that was a rumor.
Rumors.
Funny how "rumor" is one letter away from "tumor". No matter how little had spread, these rumor-tumors could grow into full-blown cancer, all over the student body... and, after all, my potentially homicidal friend and I had been sick, for at least a day and a half (two days for him).
So then, it turns out he wasn't suspended. But the rumors had already started...
Yesterday, I pondered all about how this would ruin our friendship, at the very LEAST. How he wouldn't trust me with anything ever again if he ever figured out who "reported" him. How this decision would either be a completely unnecessary mess that destroys friendships and trust and drives tragedy, or a mess that does the same, but saves a life.
But he'd joked more about killing himself than killing someone else. And he told me how he'd been genuinely depressed and suicidal before. He was still depressed, I'd say. Perhaps. I wasn't sure.
He was so offended when the speaker came to school, and told her story of experience with mental illness, with depression, and suicide... how she'd said one could not handle depression on their own. He was so offended because he believed he'd treated his own depression.
Anime and video games were his cure. It wasn't drugs, or partying, or running away, or avoiding everything in the world, but it was certainly not a long-term treatment. I have nothing against them, but I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the concept that a serious mental illness could be treated on one's own. That any serious issue could be dealt with solely on one's own, really.
Now you wouldn't think he was depressed, really, if you met him. If you were one of his friends. You might think he had a sick sense of humor, is all. Or you would laugh and joke along with him, as I have for a while now.
And now I've screwed it all up. Unintentionally, things have started to unravel, and both of us have been absent.
No one knows that I was the one who talked. Neither the principal nor I know how those words got out enough to even start rumors.
I'm going back tomorrow. I'm going back tomorrow, and I'm going to talk to the principal and the counselor again. The principal's gonna call his parents again.
I've made a mess. I can only hope it'll do more good than harm.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A Light At The End (Sunlight analysis)
((Note: PLEASE READ "SUNLIGHT" (two posts down) BEFORE READING THIS ESSAY! Forgive me for the lack of indenting. I should really figure out how to do that on here.))
Upon a dark, stormy day, the rain just won't seem to end, and the river's rising, flash flood warnings appear on local television screens, and though some morbid part of the one who views the screens and streets might feel a strange eagerness for the storm, the rest of this such person feels the weight of it; those days seem to never end. "Sunlight", written by A. ****, a very short story of seven digital "Read" pages on Microsoft Word, tells of an evening of such a day, which happens as only one small piece of a young man's tattered life. Opening with his only solace, a musty, neglected basement, then gradually revealing what brings him there (an accident, war, the death of his mother, the illness of his father, and the perceived abandonment of a significant other) as he treks his way to, and then settles in the main level of his home. A sunrise, a sunset, and later just "sunlight" itself represents the former significant other of this young man, his only "sliver of sunlight" in an abandoned, desolate room. Through this, one perceives contrast between darkness and light in a location, isolation and companionship, as well as hopelessness and hopefulness.
The opening scene of "Sunlight" reveals an undeniable darkness, if not at least a pervasive dreariness. The only light in the room appear as a dying lightbulb on bad wires and a tiny window: "There was something wrong with the wiring, he was sure of it... The light bulb kept on swinging... flickering more... losing light with every shift in motion. And then the room turned black. The young man's eyes adjusted, with the bluish light from the small... window at the opposite side of the room" (1). Preceding this quote, the objects in the room have descriptions such as "discarded materials" (1) and "precariously stacked boxes of the past" (1) that appear like "ghosts in the dimness of the chamber" (1). These abandoned objects seem to be the protagonist's only connection to his barely brighter past. This neglected room of his home, a small one underground, becomes the protagonist's solace from all his other difficulties in life. It becomes the place he can escape to, comforting, distracting, and nostalgic in spite of its darkness. But it can only serve him temporarily, as every session in the lonely basement leads him back into his even lonelier present life.
The life the protagonist, frequently referenced to throughout the piece as a "young man", faces reveals itself as one of particular difficulty and isolation. It is implied that the protagonist often finds himself alone with his dying father and a hired caretaker who comes in every so often: "He watched his dad, he watched himself, and the caretaking woman to whom he barely paid enough, watched them both...He found his father sleeping in his room... Alone" (2), and "The young man knew there wasn't much time for the man... though he may have been old enough to take care of himself, he would be an orphan" (4) reveal this to be such. These passages make it all too clear that the protagonist finds himself very aware of his potential loss, and his previous experience with it, and he expresses these things at a distance, revealing himself to be numb. Which, in turn, shows that the protagonist feels deeply alone and hurt.
However, there is no more clear emotion than when he begins to recall his former sweetheart. A girl with shy, gray-blue eyes (3), and golden hair (3). She opens him up like a key to a lock (3), and he appears to have a similar effect on her (4). These passages also reveal possible causes for his pain and loss: car crashes and war (4). But they also talked about other things--high school (3), clouds (3), flowers (4), ice cream (3), and swingsets (4), to name a few. He compares her first to a "sliver of sunlight" (3) in an abandoned hospital room of a patient who has recently died (3), then to a "sunrise" (4), and later to a "sunset" (5). These comparisons clearly represent the girl at different points in her relationship with the protagonist. The sliver indicates her quiet entrance into his life, the sunrise as inspiration in hope for the future, and, finally, the sunset as the conclusion of their relationship.
As previously stated, the sunrise represents hope for the future, and the sunset represents the end. Following the sunset is night. The post-sunset emotions plunge the protagonist into despair, and then a rationalization of his own death: "And then there was night. Endless night. No stars. Only storms like this one. His soul ached" (5), and he lists off possible methods of suicide (5), shudders at the thought of the compassionate caretaker finding him (5), but once more assures himself of his ability to end his own life (5). Earlier on, the protagonist implies that the circumstances which bring the protagonist and his father to this bleak place occurred three years ago (2), and the protagonist repeatedly mentions his feelings of a sort of oldness. These events, also implied to have killed his mother and may have caused his father's debilitating further injury and terminal illness, combined with the abandonment by his understanding girlfriend, who appears to be healing from her circumstances and moving on in life, has driven him to believe there is no hope for a future or fulfilling life left. All the odds seem stacked against him, and there seem to be no options left, in his mind. However, he finds himself pulled from his suicidal thoughts by a knock on the door (6). He does not expect who he sees--the girl from his memories, represented once more as a "sliver of sunlight" (7) as she enters the house. Only a moment ago, the protagonist had been prepared to end his own life, arguably the darkest thoughts one can possess. And then steps in what once represented brightness and a future for him, for the second time, represented as a "sliver" of sunlight--of a tiny bit of hope revived. This may not represent that he is not continuing to think about suicide, but she does provide him a distraction from such thoughts, and her entrance has the potential to once more grow into a sunrise, pure sunlight; that is, hope for the future.
The strong imagery of a rainy, dreary day, in a home of two desolate people evokes emotions of seemingly endless gloom. Such was not always the life for the protagonist, whose evening reveals the meanings of dark and light in his home, his isolation and former companionship, and his eventual despair and return to potential light. A broken young man teetering at the edge of suicide places his hope in a young woman who once shared in his grief. She once gave him inspiration to believe that his future was not hopeless. She is as bright as the sun to him, in his dark life of turbulent storms. In life, there is darkness, and thunderstorms. But at the end of the storm, there is calm, color, and the sun will always eventually return.
Upon a dark, stormy day, the rain just won't seem to end, and the river's rising, flash flood warnings appear on local television screens, and though some morbid part of the one who views the screens and streets might feel a strange eagerness for the storm, the rest of this such person feels the weight of it; those days seem to never end. "Sunlight", written by A. ****, a very short story of seven digital "Read" pages on Microsoft Word, tells of an evening of such a day, which happens as only one small piece of a young man's tattered life. Opening with his only solace, a musty, neglected basement, then gradually revealing what brings him there (an accident, war, the death of his mother, the illness of his father, and the perceived abandonment of a significant other) as he treks his way to, and then settles in the main level of his home. A sunrise, a sunset, and later just "sunlight" itself represents the former significant other of this young man, his only "sliver of sunlight" in an abandoned, desolate room. Through this, one perceives contrast between darkness and light in a location, isolation and companionship, as well as hopelessness and hopefulness.
The opening scene of "Sunlight" reveals an undeniable darkness, if not at least a pervasive dreariness. The only light in the room appear as a dying lightbulb on bad wires and a tiny window: "There was something wrong with the wiring, he was sure of it... The light bulb kept on swinging... flickering more... losing light with every shift in motion. And then the room turned black. The young man's eyes adjusted, with the bluish light from the small... window at the opposite side of the room" (1). Preceding this quote, the objects in the room have descriptions such as "discarded materials" (1) and "precariously stacked boxes of the past" (1) that appear like "ghosts in the dimness of the chamber" (1). These abandoned objects seem to be the protagonist's only connection to his barely brighter past. This neglected room of his home, a small one underground, becomes the protagonist's solace from all his other difficulties in life. It becomes the place he can escape to, comforting, distracting, and nostalgic in spite of its darkness. But it can only serve him temporarily, as every session in the lonely basement leads him back into his even lonelier present life.
The life the protagonist, frequently referenced to throughout the piece as a "young man", faces reveals itself as one of particular difficulty and isolation. It is implied that the protagonist often finds himself alone with his dying father and a hired caretaker who comes in every so often: "He watched his dad, he watched himself, and the caretaking woman to whom he barely paid enough, watched them both...He found his father sleeping in his room... Alone" (2), and "The young man knew there wasn't much time for the man... though he may have been old enough to take care of himself, he would be an orphan" (4) reveal this to be such. These passages make it all too clear that the protagonist finds himself very aware of his potential loss, and his previous experience with it, and he expresses these things at a distance, revealing himself to be numb. Which, in turn, shows that the protagonist feels deeply alone and hurt.
However, there is no more clear emotion than when he begins to recall his former sweetheart. A girl with shy, gray-blue eyes (3), and golden hair (3). She opens him up like a key to a lock (3), and he appears to have a similar effect on her (4). These passages also reveal possible causes for his pain and loss: car crashes and war (4). But they also talked about other things--high school (3), clouds (3), flowers (4), ice cream (3), and swingsets (4), to name a few. He compares her first to a "sliver of sunlight" (3) in an abandoned hospital room of a patient who has recently died (3), then to a "sunrise" (4), and later to a "sunset" (5). These comparisons clearly represent the girl at different points in her relationship with the protagonist. The sliver indicates her quiet entrance into his life, the sunrise as inspiration in hope for the future, and, finally, the sunset as the conclusion of their relationship.
As previously stated, the sunrise represents hope for the future, and the sunset represents the end. Following the sunset is night. The post-sunset emotions plunge the protagonist into despair, and then a rationalization of his own death: "And then there was night. Endless night. No stars. Only storms like this one. His soul ached" (5), and he lists off possible methods of suicide (5), shudders at the thought of the compassionate caretaker finding him (5), but once more assures himself of his ability to end his own life (5). Earlier on, the protagonist implies that the circumstances which bring the protagonist and his father to this bleak place occurred three years ago (2), and the protagonist repeatedly mentions his feelings of a sort of oldness. These events, also implied to have killed his mother and may have caused his father's debilitating further injury and terminal illness, combined with the abandonment by his understanding girlfriend, who appears to be healing from her circumstances and moving on in life, has driven him to believe there is no hope for a future or fulfilling life left. All the odds seem stacked against him, and there seem to be no options left, in his mind. However, he finds himself pulled from his suicidal thoughts by a knock on the door (6). He does not expect who he sees--the girl from his memories, represented once more as a "sliver of sunlight" (7) as she enters the house. Only a moment ago, the protagonist had been prepared to end his own life, arguably the darkest thoughts one can possess. And then steps in what once represented brightness and a future for him, for the second time, represented as a "sliver" of sunlight--of a tiny bit of hope revived. This may not represent that he is not continuing to think about suicide, but she does provide him a distraction from such thoughts, and her entrance has the potential to once more grow into a sunrise, pure sunlight; that is, hope for the future.
The strong imagery of a rainy, dreary day, in a home of two desolate people evokes emotions of seemingly endless gloom. Such was not always the life for the protagonist, whose evening reveals the meanings of dark and light in his home, his isolation and former companionship, and his eventual despair and return to potential light. A broken young man teetering at the edge of suicide places his hope in a young woman who once shared in his grief. She once gave him inspiration to believe that his future was not hopeless. She is as bright as the sun to him, in his dark life of turbulent storms. In life, there is darkness, and thunderstorms. But at the end of the storm, there is calm, color, and the sun will always eventually return.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Introduction to a "Literary Analysis" of "Sunlight" (because... it's 1:47 AM and I've had too much coffee)
Introduction (not that you read the title or anything): So in English, I've been assigned to write a literary analysis essay on the classic Steinbeck novel, Of Mice and Men, with a choice of four different topics: Isolation and Loneliness (three characters), Curley's Wife Being a "Floozy" vs. Being a Lonely Victim (with the latter being my English teacher's preference for an essay topic), Animal Imagery in OMAM, and Steinbeck's Use of Dark and Light (essentially, how he uses it to convey mood and whether or not a scene should be viewed positively or negatively. Whoa. Shocktastic.).
Anyways, not that it's relevant, but I chose the Curley's Wife topic (she's a lonely victim of male oppression and dream loss and spousal neglect, or at least that's what I'll be "arguing"), though I'm more leaning toward Isolation and Loneliness right now, but that would be the easy route. So would Animal Imagery, as well, actually, but I didn't like that one. Before this gets too ranty, I shall say the purpose of this post, or rather the post it is preceding. I will be writing a very rough practice essay analyzing my own recently blogged work--"Sunlight".
Which is just as depressing as any Steinbeck novel, except the girl/baby/everyone didn't die. I will be attempting to use the "TIQA" format (Topic Sentence-Introduce Quote-Quote-Analysis) in this "essay" (whichprobably won't be nearly as formal as it should be). I'm striving for five paragraphs long. I've never written an essay for anything other than school, and as previously stated, it won't be as formal as necessary. So take it with a grain of salt, if you do choose to read it.
And tune in for the next post for my SUPEREXCITING analysis of my own writing. I hope it makes me a better writer.
Anyways, not that it's relevant, but I chose the Curley's Wife topic (she's a lonely victim of male oppression and dream loss and spousal neglect, or at least that's what I'll be "arguing"), though I'm more leaning toward Isolation and Loneliness right now, but that would be the easy route. So would Animal Imagery, as well, actually, but I didn't like that one. Before this gets too ranty, I shall say the purpose of this post, or rather the post it is preceding. I will be writing a very rough practice essay analyzing my own recently blogged work--"Sunlight".
Which is just as depressing as any Steinbeck novel, except the girl/baby/everyone didn't die. I will be attempting to use the "TIQA" format (Topic Sentence-Introduce Quote-Quote-Analysis) in this "essay" (which
And tune in for the next post for my SUPEREXCITING analysis of my own writing. I hope it makes me a better writer.
"Sunlight" (Chapter 1- "Return")
Sunlight
Chapter 1: Return
Present
A young man lay on the floor, staring up at the sagging ceiling above him. A lone light bulb swung from side to side, and flickered on and off, on and off, making static noises, as a ladybug mindlessly crashed into it, finding the moving object difficult to navigate.
There was something wrong with the wiring, he was sure of it. The floor he laid upon was slightly damp, a rug on concrete just below ground. The high, uncarpeted wooden staircase, had a history of being the source of many splinters on bare feet. The room was about 12 by 12 and only 8 feet high. There wasn't much in the room; just years of discarded materials, clothes that were too small, old toys, some photographs, long-abandoned sports equipment, precariously
stacked boxes of the past gathering dust. They looked
like ghosts in the dimness of the chamber.
The light bulb kept on swinging, side to side, flickering more and more, losing light with every shift in motion. And then the room turned black. The young man's eyes adjusted, with the bluish light from the small, drafty, rectangular window at the opposite side of the room. He suddenly became aware of the pitter-patter sounds of rain. Slowly, the young man sat up. He was young, but he felt old. Everyday he felt too old. This place was all but forgotten by the two occupants of the home... nobody else came down here anymore. Only he could. Only he did. Every once in a while, when he wanted, needed to get away from things.
The room smelled vaguely of mold, and other musty scents that were not entirely unpleasant.
Gradually, he forced himself to stand. Made his way, in the dark, to the stairs. He knew the place well enough. One step at a time, he made his way back to real life, life in the present. He opened the door at the top of the stairs, like he'd done many times before. The house was too clean. It smelled over-sanitary, the opposite of the underground solace the young man had made for himself. He watched his dad, he watched himself, and the caretaking woman to whom he barely paid enough, watched them both. The young man had this day off. A Friday evening. He found his father sleeping in his room. The man was alone in that room, as his wife had been gone for three years.
They lived together, father and son, but they were more isolated than either cared to confess aloud. They barely spoke, just helped each other with what was necessary. Lately, for quite a while now, actually, the young man had been doing most of such assistance.
The light bulb kept on swinging, side to side, flickering more and more, losing light with every shift in motion. And then the room turned black. The young man's eyes adjusted, with the bluish light from the small, drafty, rectangular window at the opposite side of the room. He suddenly became aware of the pitter-patter sounds of rain. Slowly, the young man sat up. He was young, but he felt old. Everyday he felt too old. This place was all but forgotten by the two occupants of the home... nobody else came down here anymore. Only he could. Only he did. Every once in a while, when he wanted, needed to get away from things.
The room smelled vaguely of mold, and other musty scents that were not entirely unpleasant.
Gradually, he forced himself to stand. Made his way, in the dark, to the stairs. He knew the place well enough. One step at a time, he made his way back to real life, life in the present. He opened the door at the top of the stairs, like he'd done many times before. The house was too clean. It smelled over-sanitary, the opposite of the underground solace the young man had made for himself. He watched his dad, he watched himself, and the caretaking woman to whom he barely paid enough, watched them both. The young man had this day off. A Friday evening. He found his father sleeping in his room. The man was alone in that room, as his wife had been gone for three years.
They lived together, father and son, but they were more isolated than either cared to confess aloud. They barely spoke, just helped each other with what was necessary. Lately, for quite a while now, actually, the young man had been doing most of such assistance.
The
young man stared through the window in the small living room above his hideout.
The rain looked like waterfalls from the sky. Thunder rolled quietly in the
distance, taking its time to make its way to the town in which he resided in.
As he
thought of the rain, he considered one more person who had once had a place in
his life. This person made things seem brighter. Like a sliver of sunlight
through closed curtains in an abandoned hospital room.
That person had eyes the color of a clear lake on a cloudy summer day. Shy eyes. That person had hair the color of a wheat field at sunset. Golden. She was just that. And she understood.
They spoke when they could. They were keys and locks. He meant not to be cliché, but truly, she was the only one who could get him to open up at all. Sometimes they spoke of childish or frivolous things, about the shape of clouds, about ice cream, and chocolate, and music, and the components of high school, which, for him, seemed eons ago, in spite of this young man's age. It hadn't been as long as it felt.
He felt old, but this was not so, and she reminded him of his youth. She had been a junior in high school when they met, so long ago. Their physical relationship was innocent—accidental naps in her room, a stolen kiss every now and again.
That person had eyes the color of a clear lake on a cloudy summer day. Shy eyes. That person had hair the color of a wheat field at sunset. Golden. She was just that. And she understood.
They spoke when they could. They were keys and locks. He meant not to be cliché, but truly, she was the only one who could get him to open up at all. Sometimes they spoke of childish or frivolous things, about the shape of clouds, about ice cream, and chocolate, and music, and the components of high school, which, for him, seemed eons ago, in spite of this young man's age. It hadn't been as long as it felt.
He felt old, but this was not so, and she reminded him of his youth. She had been a junior in high school when they met, so long ago. Their physical relationship was innocent—accidental naps in her room, a stolen kiss every now and again.
And
their conversation could also turn to serious subjects. They would talk about
her brother. How she saw him, even though he had been gone for years. How she
could see him make expressions, of approval, disapproval. When he was
comforting, when he was not, but how she didn't want to lose the vision of him.
How it would be like losing him again. They would talk about his mother. How he
sometimes saw her too. Particular car crashes and a particular war. His uneven
gait. The many towns he lived in before those events.
They
spoke of everything beneath the blanket of blue and grey skies.
And the clouded chamber that the young man had become
was would light up.
She was like a beautiful sunrise. She made him imagine a future. She made it seem tangible... like a future was attainable. That there was life beyond this. That he could keep up with life again.
But his father’s feeble health further detiorated. The blurs of white coats, collared shirts, and pastel uniforms… they did all that they could. There was no longer anything that could be done. The young man knew there wasn't much time for the man. And soon, though he may have been old enough to take care of himself, he would be an orphan.
He couldn't see her as much. And he found himself on a piece of driftwood floating away from shore. Off to an unknown location. Things were hard for her too. Eventually, she also drifted. She took her medicine, and her brother went away. Their phone calls grew shorter. She graduated from high school.
A sunset.
And then, there was night. Endless night. No stars. Only storms like this one. His soul ached.
Somewhere in that basement was rope. And he knew there were pills everywhere in this desolate excuse for a house. There were knives and bathtubs and there was rain outside, pouring down... lightning somewhere.
He could do it. His father was going soon, too. It wouldn't do a thing. The woman who watched the house, watched them, she was a kind, compassionate woman. She did more than what she should. She tried to be a counselor. She talked to them, the young man, and the older one. She might shed a few tears, as she stood in black.
She would probably be the one to find him. It made the young man shudder a little. But he could do it.
He could.
A sound from outside interjected the young man’s thoughts, through the rain. Something harder than sky-water had hit. Gentle fingers in a loose fist, a tentative knock-knock upon the door.
The young man took a deep breath. It was early. He walked toward the door. And there stood a face that had seared itself in his memory.
There was sunlight at his door.
Her voice rang clear and quiet.
"Hi," she said. Trying to smile. She was sunlight.
"I was just here visiting my parents for the weekend..."
Blue eyes glowing.
"I thought I'd... I wanted to see you."
Sunlight.
"Come in," the young man replied in a shaking voice.
The sliver of sunlight stepped inside.
She was like a beautiful sunrise. She made him imagine a future. She made it seem tangible... like a future was attainable. That there was life beyond this. That he could keep up with life again.
But his father’s feeble health further detiorated. The blurs of white coats, collared shirts, and pastel uniforms… they did all that they could. There was no longer anything that could be done. The young man knew there wasn't much time for the man. And soon, though he may have been old enough to take care of himself, he would be an orphan.
He couldn't see her as much. And he found himself on a piece of driftwood floating away from shore. Off to an unknown location. Things were hard for her too. Eventually, she also drifted. She took her medicine, and her brother went away. Their phone calls grew shorter. She graduated from high school.
A sunset.
And then, there was night. Endless night. No stars. Only storms like this one. His soul ached.
Somewhere in that basement was rope. And he knew there were pills everywhere in this desolate excuse for a house. There were knives and bathtubs and there was rain outside, pouring down... lightning somewhere.
He could do it. His father was going soon, too. It wouldn't do a thing. The woman who watched the house, watched them, she was a kind, compassionate woman. She did more than what she should. She tried to be a counselor. She talked to them, the young man, and the older one. She might shed a few tears, as she stood in black.
She would probably be the one to find him. It made the young man shudder a little. But he could do it.
He could.
A sound from outside interjected the young man’s thoughts, through the rain. Something harder than sky-water had hit. Gentle fingers in a loose fist, a tentative knock-knock upon the door.
The young man took a deep breath. It was early. He walked toward the door. And there stood a face that had seared itself in his memory.
There was sunlight at his door.
Her voice rang clear and quiet.
"Hi," she said. Trying to smile. She was sunlight.
"I was just here visiting my parents for the weekend..."
Blue eyes glowing.
"I thought I'd... I wanted to see you."
Sunlight.
"Come in," the young man replied in a shaking voice.
The sliver of sunlight stepped inside.
Friday, May 6, 2011
More roleplay character stuff... (WIP)
(This is GT: TNG Damir and GT: TNG Amira. There is a difference between those two and the original versions of them from ROTP: The Darker and Edgier Alternate Version. So yeah.)
Without trying to, Damir had started paying more attention to Amira. It was unusual, given that she was from his old school, a place he'd rather avoid, but now she had his attention. She had started to attend private sessions with the teen's group therapist, whom she'd likely gotten to know through the school. He didn't know how the place was since he'd left, over two years ago, other than the fact that the guidance counselor had been replaced by the young woman who facillitated the group.
He assumed not much else had changed. For a while, Damir hadn't felt much, nothing but panic, and a few times, anger, otherwise taking life in a daze of cleaning supplies and cooking and changing uniforms and helping his father with all that he could those few hours he had at home...
And lately, it'd been even harder to do those things. He was fearful of communicating with anyone, lest they remind him... of what happened. The many things that had happened. Some days, it seemed like nearly everything reminded him of all those situations. He had no place to hide.
It swelled inside of him, threatening to swallow him whole. He was trapped. And he knew that this simply wouldn't do. He had too much work for this, too much he needed to do for his parents...
So he'd initiated the sessions with Dr. Mark Peterson. And he'd spoken to Amira that time, a few weeks ago. She'd caught him sleeping in his car the night he couldn't get himself home. He was so grateful for the sleeping pills Dr. Mark had given him. Sleeping more than a few hours a night was helping...
Without trying to, Damir had started paying more attention to Amira. It was unusual, given that she was from his old school, a place he'd rather avoid, but now she had his attention. She had started to attend private sessions with the teen's group therapist, whom she'd likely gotten to know through the school. He didn't know how the place was since he'd left, over two years ago, other than the fact that the guidance counselor had been replaced by the young woman who facillitated the group.
He assumed not much else had changed. For a while, Damir hadn't felt much, nothing but panic, and a few times, anger, otherwise taking life in a daze of cleaning supplies and cooking and changing uniforms and helping his father with all that he could those few hours he had at home...
And lately, it'd been even harder to do those things. He was fearful of communicating with anyone, lest they remind him... of what happened. The many things that had happened. Some days, it seemed like nearly everything reminded him of all those situations. He had no place to hide.
It swelled inside of him, threatening to swallow him whole. He was trapped. And he knew that this simply wouldn't do. He had too much work for this, too much he needed to do for his parents...
So he'd initiated the sessions with Dr. Mark Peterson. And he'd spoken to Amira that time, a few weeks ago. She'd caught him sleeping in his car the night he couldn't get himself home. He was so grateful for the sleeping pills Dr. Mark had given him. Sleeping more than a few hours a night was helping...
Torn--a short story based on a roleplay character.
In some places, it felt as though nails were ripping through his body. In others, it felt like hammers were pounding just beneath his skin, pain like hitting bruises from the inside out. Like a sharp-toothed creature gnawing on his nerves.
He wanted to sleep, but it was out of the question. If sleep would guarantee him peace, he would desire it. But he knew it would not. He didn't even have to close his eyes to see it all...
He felt the impact of being flung against the opposite wall in the train car, walls closing in, as the train twisted and writhed...
It continued to slither out of control, contorting in the same way that the cars ahead of this one had. Damir moved like the train. Into the ceiling he was thrown, the floor, rolled to a wall, forced to stand as the train continued to move... feeling every impact until he hit his head right above a broken window. Scraping his scalp against the window as he fell to the floor for the last time, the train finally halted, dying the tips of broken glass red.
"Stop," Damir whispered, as he tried to prevent further recollection. It had been three years...
How he had ever recovered so well was beyond him. Why whatever the Capitol did for him, in spite of his parents' worse injuries, hadn't worked as well for them.
And then they died from gunshot wounds three years later, on national television. Yet right now, they wheeled closer to him. Put their shaking hands on his shoulders. Pleaded, whispered, shouted, of his searing abandonment not too long ago... Pleaded, and whispered...
"Damir, come home. Come be with us now, come home, even though you left us before! You need to come home now. These people are only going to keep hurting you."
He was in a different train station now, watching the screens closely. All the tributes' parents gathered in the room... Phylicia Feidelm, former head Gamemaker. Now president. Her public apology to the families of the tributes she tortured on-screen and off, the carefully orchestrated shock upon her face as a young man with obvious relation to his fellow tribute raised a gun.
How the young man tried to make his shots look wild, and frenzied, but landed in all-too-vital places. Heads and hearts and necks and veins... blood spurting on the cameras... the only one non-fatally shot was the president herself.
His own helpless parents. Convinced to leave their safe home for this. Right in their hearts, sparing broken minds, Damir's own blood seeming to leap from the screen...
His own chest ached now, in addition to the rest of his pain. All the places where bullets had pierced him, his legs, in places that were even removed... everything felt freshly wounded again. Raw.
He was worn, and empty.
"You need to come home, now, Damir! Right now!"
He stared at his parents now... they were so real; he believed they were there. He wanted to follow them, to do what they said. Sometimes he just did it because he wanted them to stop shouting and telling them to do as they said. To get out of this dangerous place they told him his world was.
The medicine was supposed to help you, Damir, a very quiet voice whispered to Damir. It was painfully clear that the medicine, which had been to treat the symptoms caused by his failed infection treatment had only worsened his condition. The condition had been improving without medicine, however gradual that had been... Whether or not this had been the "doctors'" intention was yet to be determined. But he had the sneaking suspicion that it had been their intention... Anything to break him further, especially in front of everyone, risking the harm of somebody else as well.
"Now, Damir! Get out right now!" his parents shouted. Their voices hadn't been so loud in years. Shaking, Damir maneuvered his way to the edge of his bed.
Feuding forces argued over the broken young man, as he started to sit up... they'd been fighting since the day of the train crash. Most present when life's tectonic plates shifted, causing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The voices of reason and hope were the most muffled, the others threatening to silence them. Drowned out by pain and delusion, by a mind with its shattering heart set on destroying the broken body that barely had a hold on it.
"Damir, you can't do this... your real parents would never want this..."
He used all his will simply to stand, his arms shaking as he steadied himself with the bed. It was only a few steps from his bed to the window, which didn't look protected at all. No forcefields. No screens.
"Come on, Damir! We were faster than you! And we've never left you. Not once! Not even those times when you wanted us to. Be grateful that we're even allowing you to home now," his father shouted.
The force of guilt propelled him forward now, intensifying pain with every step. He gripped the edge of the window.
No, Damir, don't listen to them... You're stronger than this. You are stronger than this.
He was in a dark room, where a sinister man pointed a poisonous syringe at Amira.
The weight of a gun in Damir's hand. The man drawing closer to Amira... and out of Damir's stolen weapon, a bullet was fired. The man dropped to the floor.
Delirious Amira giving him a look of dazed gratefulness... and horror, horror of him in her tortured blue eyes.
"Now, Damir! Get out right now!" his mother shouted.
He fumbled with the window's lock.
Damir, your real mother is a gentle, loving woman who wants you to live your entire life, not leave it early.
He was about four floors up. He could fall any second.
And your father values life greatly, Damir. Especially yours. You were his son. He and your mother handled hardship and wrongs so greatly. They were strong. They never gave up. They did all the could. They were strong.
At this moment, his parents were shouting so loudly, even shoving him toward the window. The room was spinning.
He saw Amira's horrified eyes.
The doctors telling him his parent's conditions.
The fellow Peacekeeper tormenting a young girl.
His parents shouted so loudly, words blending into others...
He tried to open the window.
He felt his fists pinning Amira to a wall. Slapping her tender face. Smothering her and giving the eveninglock to help her feign death. After doing the same to Zane. Blaze's accusations of betrayal. Actions of a lie, that had seemed far too real.
He finally opened it.
They weren't always perfect, Damir. They were once Peacekeepers like the ones you knew. But they realized their wrongs, and they changed. They became compassionate, caring... doing so many things for others without asking for anything in return...
A genuine Peacekeeper at the station had approached him, when he was considering blocking the path of an oncoming train...
"I know you're a Peacekeeper," the man had said. "And I want to see you out there. I want to see you fighting."
They wanted peace, Damir. They truly wanted peace. To heal the nation. To right the wrongs of a long history. They taught you everything you know.
The voice had struggled to assert itself, drowned out by all the others... but it was clear.
Damir had opened the window. But he turned himself away now, sliding painfully to the floor, as tears began to stream down his face.
He saw the storms of the house on Island 75.
Damir... the voice whispered.
He saw Amira's beautiful face in the sunset glow.
He heard himself call her beautiful, saw her girlish blush. Saw all the pain he caused her. And watched all her promises come true... she would be there. Even if he was always like this...
He gasped for air in his sobbing.
Damir, the quiet voice repeated.
"I want to see you out there... I want to see you fighting..." he heard the man again.
He saw blooming groves in District 11. Smiles of children at the sight of the school his parents had helped build in District 12.
Amira's eyes, when she smiled.
"We love you," he recalled his parents saying.
"I love you," Amira had once whispered to him.
The darkness was still there. He knew he couldn't do this alone. He raised his head, raised his voice with all the volume he could muster... and he screamed.
"Help me!" he cried. "Somebody, please!"
His own voice drowned out the vengeful ghosts of his mind.
He wanted to sleep, but it was out of the question. If sleep would guarantee him peace, he would desire it. But he knew it would not. He didn't even have to close his eyes to see it all...
He felt the impact of being flung against the opposite wall in the train car, walls closing in, as the train twisted and writhed...
It continued to slither out of control, contorting in the same way that the cars ahead of this one had. Damir moved like the train. Into the ceiling he was thrown, the floor, rolled to a wall, forced to stand as the train continued to move... feeling every impact until he hit his head right above a broken window. Scraping his scalp against the window as he fell to the floor for the last time, the train finally halted, dying the tips of broken glass red.
"Stop," Damir whispered, as he tried to prevent further recollection. It had been three years...
How he had ever recovered so well was beyond him. Why whatever the Capitol did for him, in spite of his parents' worse injuries, hadn't worked as well for them.
And then they died from gunshot wounds three years later, on national television. Yet right now, they wheeled closer to him. Put their shaking hands on his shoulders. Pleaded, whispered, shouted, of his searing abandonment not too long ago... Pleaded, and whispered...
"Damir, come home. Come be with us now, come home, even though you left us before! You need to come home now. These people are only going to keep hurting you."
He was in a different train station now, watching the screens closely. All the tributes' parents gathered in the room... Phylicia Feidelm, former head Gamemaker. Now president. Her public apology to the families of the tributes she tortured on-screen and off, the carefully orchestrated shock upon her face as a young man with obvious relation to his fellow tribute raised a gun.
How the young man tried to make his shots look wild, and frenzied, but landed in all-too-vital places. Heads and hearts and necks and veins... blood spurting on the cameras... the only one non-fatally shot was the president herself.
His own helpless parents. Convinced to leave their safe home for this. Right in their hearts, sparing broken minds, Damir's own blood seeming to leap from the screen...
His own chest ached now, in addition to the rest of his pain. All the places where bullets had pierced him, his legs, in places that were even removed... everything felt freshly wounded again. Raw.
He was worn, and empty.
"You need to come home, now, Damir! Right now!"
He stared at his parents now... they were so real; he believed they were there. He wanted to follow them, to do what they said. Sometimes he just did it because he wanted them to stop shouting and telling them to do as they said. To get out of this dangerous place they told him his world was.
The medicine was supposed to help you, Damir, a very quiet voice whispered to Damir. It was painfully clear that the medicine, which had been to treat the symptoms caused by his failed infection treatment had only worsened his condition. The condition had been improving without medicine, however gradual that had been... Whether or not this had been the "doctors'" intention was yet to be determined. But he had the sneaking suspicion that it had been their intention... Anything to break him further, especially in front of everyone, risking the harm of somebody else as well.
"Now, Damir! Get out right now!" his parents shouted. Their voices hadn't been so loud in years. Shaking, Damir maneuvered his way to the edge of his bed.
Feuding forces argued over the broken young man, as he started to sit up... they'd been fighting since the day of the train crash. Most present when life's tectonic plates shifted, causing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The voices of reason and hope were the most muffled, the others threatening to silence them. Drowned out by pain and delusion, by a mind with its shattering heart set on destroying the broken body that barely had a hold on it.
"Damir, you can't do this... your real parents would never want this..."
He used all his will simply to stand, his arms shaking as he steadied himself with the bed. It was only a few steps from his bed to the window, which didn't look protected at all. No forcefields. No screens.
"Come on, Damir! We were faster than you! And we've never left you. Not once! Not even those times when you wanted us to. Be grateful that we're even allowing you to home now," his father shouted.
The force of guilt propelled him forward now, intensifying pain with every step. He gripped the edge of the window.
No, Damir, don't listen to them... You're stronger than this. You are stronger than this.
He was in a dark room, where a sinister man pointed a poisonous syringe at Amira.
The weight of a gun in Damir's hand. The man drawing closer to Amira... and out of Damir's stolen weapon, a bullet was fired. The man dropped to the floor.
Delirious Amira giving him a look of dazed gratefulness... and horror, horror of him in her tortured blue eyes.
"Now, Damir! Get out right now!" his mother shouted.
He fumbled with the window's lock.
Damir, your real mother is a gentle, loving woman who wants you to live your entire life, not leave it early.
He was about four floors up. He could fall any second.
And your father values life greatly, Damir. Especially yours. You were his son. He and your mother handled hardship and wrongs so greatly. They were strong. They never gave up. They did all the could. They were strong.
At this moment, his parents were shouting so loudly, even shoving him toward the window. The room was spinning.
He saw Amira's horrified eyes.
The doctors telling him his parent's conditions.
The fellow Peacekeeper tormenting a young girl.
His parents shouted so loudly, words blending into others...
He tried to open the window.
He felt his fists pinning Amira to a wall. Slapping her tender face. Smothering her and giving the eveninglock to help her feign death. After doing the same to Zane. Blaze's accusations of betrayal. Actions of a lie, that had seemed far too real.
He finally opened it.
They weren't always perfect, Damir. They were once Peacekeepers like the ones you knew. But they realized their wrongs, and they changed. They became compassionate, caring... doing so many things for others without asking for anything in return...
A genuine Peacekeeper at the station had approached him, when he was considering blocking the path of an oncoming train...
"I know you're a Peacekeeper," the man had said. "And I want to see you out there. I want to see you fighting."
They wanted peace, Damir. They truly wanted peace. To heal the nation. To right the wrongs of a long history. They taught you everything you know.
The voice had struggled to assert itself, drowned out by all the others... but it was clear.
Damir had opened the window. But he turned himself away now, sliding painfully to the floor, as tears began to stream down his face.
He saw the storms of the house on Island 75.
Damir... the voice whispered.
He saw Amira's beautiful face in the sunset glow.
He heard himself call her beautiful, saw her girlish blush. Saw all the pain he caused her. And watched all her promises come true... she would be there. Even if he was always like this...
He gasped for air in his sobbing.
Damir, the quiet voice repeated.
"I want to see you out there... I want to see you fighting..." he heard the man again.
He saw blooming groves in District 11. Smiles of children at the sight of the school his parents had helped build in District 12.
Amira's eyes, when she smiled.
"We love you," he recalled his parents saying.
"I love you," Amira had once whispered to him.
The darkness was still there. He knew he couldn't do this alone. He raised his head, raised his voice with all the volume he could muster... and he screamed.
"Help me!" he cried. "Somebody, please!"
His own voice drowned out the vengeful ghosts of his mind.
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