Shut Up
Try to see it once my way
14th of May 2001
Emma’s dad hates me.
It’s ironic because Uri’s dad doesn’t hate me.
Perhaps the iron bull of Seattle has his horns pointed at his family as well and his ears are so sensible that even the slightest remark is seen as a trigger red.
Johnny-boy, you’re hidden treasure.
But, Em, why does your dad hate me?
Even with you around, his despise and obvious disgust are cut-through. Why is it that you can see them, oblivious little dog?
And why is it that your dad hates me?
Because I killed three people, become a reaper it seems? Or because he’s as possessive as me and I’m a dog snooping around in his territory?
I want you, Emma, but the world never gives me what I want…
5th of August 2010
I’m cold; the part of the bed on which you slept is empty and it radiates cold, a cold that entangles in my air and chokes me of life. Until now, you were my life.
I cannot live without my life.
I cannot live without my soul.
I would have been relieved if you had been a passerby, simply watching my tragedy, because it would have been so much easier to let go of you. You would have disappeared behind the corner after throwing a coin in my hat. But you came in violently, tied yourself to me as if I was a rock and you were sinking (or perhaps it was the other way around?)
You should’ve known better than to listen to what I recited like a kid for his teacher to get a good grade; those words were strained and forced to be spat out by my brain, my brain that never listens to my heart.
My heart grieves your departure…
Uriel sees my dead eyes and I’m afraid that he’ll be repulsed by my extreme depiction to break bonds willingly and he’ll leave as well and I’ll be left here alone.
You can’t go, because I cannot digest this reality without my kidneys to hold off what’s harmful.
This would be a too long and deviated version of my plea to you, Em.
In reality, it would only say three words:
‘Return to me’…
10th of June 2010
How can one stop using when it’s so difficult to stop?
You have to continue using, only less in quantity, until you reach a point where you can stop completely, a long and painful process that I find time-wasting.
Wouldn’t it be easier to stop using at all?
You would writhe in agony, desperation for a few weeks, your organs would be controlled in a wrong way by a confused brain, the brain of a junkie, but after that horrible period ends, you’d revert back to normalcy.
Pain would pass, as a fleeting moment.
If you disagree, it’s okay, it’s my own opinion that I base on my own reality, which is a very distorted version of yours, you who may or may not read these private thoughts of a diseased brain.
The reality starts like this:
Emma left me for a dream. She prefers fantasy over reality.
Why, then, doesn’t she stop existing? Why are phone calls needed after a departure?
They don’t make me miss you less,but more,almost reaching a point where even your name on someone’s lips hurts…
I shook my head when Uri reached out the phone to me, but his eyes, so filled with emotion, gave me no escape route.
Your voice was dry, humorless even when humor dripped into the receiver from your dry lips, to find nest in my ear.
You were tired…
I was tired…
…but I wasn’t tired enough to tell you what my heart screamed desperately.
I told you to work hard; you smiled (I could sense your smile) and said a dry ‘I will’ and then you disappeared around the corner.
But you’ll come back; you keep peeking from around the corner, taunting me horribly.
I gave the heavy phone to Johnny and remained staring off into space like a retard; I wanted to die, right in that moment death would’ve meant liberation.
You had to open your mouth, Johnny-boy; I was trying so hard not to cry, because a dude can’t cry, but you opened your mouth, exhaled a perfect halo of smoke (though for what you did, I’d say it missed the horns) and said what should have been obvious:
‘You miss her’
How can I not miss my life?
20th of September 2013
I don’t know how you’re reading this, I guess you won’t understand why I left seven pages empty, white, unstained by this tool of torture I accept to feed with my brain’s sick debates. No, I presume you’ll even be frustrated flipping empty page after empty page just to reach this one.
A week has passed, seven undamaged pages I couldn’t bring myself to harm with, what was then, the thoughts of a dying brain.
Oh, God…I’ve done one huge mistake I decided to consider the only good thing I’ve done in this lifetime of mine; I wish I could take it back…
Em, I’m so sorry…I’m despaired by the emptiness of the side of the bed where you used to dream, smile that dreamy smile of yours when you weren’t dreaming, cuddle in my arms and share your warmth with me when you didn’t smile.
The bed was my only refuge…I haven’t slept in days…
Exactly one week ago, at 10 p.m., I did what my body has refused to do since my mom died, no, actually, since my baby sister left this world. I had to remember a procedure my brain forgot because it was not required in any of my usual activities, oil my rusted system and use them on a nobody. Yes, this is my description of a mediocre human being whose life doesn’t produce or create.
I fucked a nobody. This is as far as my soul can degenerate, the lowest I’ve ever fallen. I don’t think I can rise back up again. I don’t have a light anymore and it’s darker in this pit…
I just fucked up my entire existence again…
I don’t even know how I had the energy to conceal my disgust from that tramp,how I could continue even after being stripped to bone by her hungry eyes and scraped on my tiny heart by her long (oh, just like a predator’s) fingernails.
Fuck!I’m just a word away from vomit, from a violent bawl that I rehearsed last night, and the night before and so on.
That’s why I’ll pass on to the next repulsive event my brain can’t forget; no matter how hungry, or dissatisfied or unnerved you are, I will not degrade myself as much as to relate the actual event that happened exactly one week ago, at 10 p.m..
The next thing my plan dictated was the one that ruined my existence; of course, I can’t possibly call it the one that ruined my existence, because my existence was ruined a long time ago, under the influence of alcohol, bu Lorelai…and later by Phil…and by mom afterwards…
I told Em. Should’ve avoided this step; her eyes (oh, Em, your eyes have always disturbed me to such a degree I forgot about the rest of the matters that disturbed me)…I can’t bear to describe them.
She seemed disappointed, betrayed; she had the eyes my parents both had after Lorelai died.
She asked me a prolonged,delayed and miniscule ‘why?’ that I couldn’t answer and so that got a replay as painful as her eyes were: her tears. She tried to cover her mouth to silence her tongue’s rebellion, but her digits weren’t strong enough.
‘I hate you’…
Reading them today hurt as much as hearing them then…
Johnny came. He always comes….
When he saw his sister’s tears, he turned to me and his digits balled into a trembling fist. I told him, as I told Em, when he asked me what I did to his sister and I got punched as a reward; it was the most painful punch I’ve ever gotten.
And then, as a contagious person, I was severed from my home by a venomous ‘Leave’ that Johnny spat through his teeth after wrapping his big arms around Em.
I wished so desperately that those arms would’ve been mine…
Nobody has contacted me in for a week; maybe they forgot about my existence or maybe they no longer care.
The only thing I regret is leaving my beast back at the hostel, because it would have lured the specters and I could’ve died; I welcome death now…no more delaying.
This is the last page of my story; today a new specter appeared…
It was me…
Emma’s dad hates me.
It’s ironic because Uri’s dad doesn’t hate me.
Perhaps the iron bull of Seattle has his horns pointed at his family as well and his ears are so sensible that even the slightest remark is seen as a trigger red.
Johnny-boy, you’re hidden treasure.
But, Em, why does your dad hate me?
Even with you around, his despise and obvious disgust are cut-through. Why is it that you can see them, oblivious little dog?
And why is it that your dad hates me?
Because I killed three people, become a reaper it seems? Or because he’s as possessive as me and I’m a dog snooping around in his territory?
I want you, Emma, but the world never gives me what I want…
5th of August 2010
I’m cold; the part of the bed on which you slept is empty and it radiates cold, a cold that entangles in my air and chokes me of life. Until now, you were my life.
I cannot live without my life.
I cannot live without my soul.
I would have been relieved if you had been a passerby, simply watching my tragedy, because it would have been so much easier to let go of you. You would have disappeared behind the corner after throwing a coin in my hat. But you came in violently, tied yourself to me as if I was a rock and you were sinking (or perhaps it was the other way around?)
You should’ve known better than to listen to what I recited like a kid for his teacher to get a good grade; those words were strained and forced to be spat out by my brain, my brain that never listens to my heart.
My heart grieves your departure…
Uriel sees my dead eyes and I’m afraid that he’ll be repulsed by my extreme depiction to break bonds willingly and he’ll leave as well and I’ll be left here alone.
You can’t go, because I cannot digest this reality without my kidneys to hold off what’s harmful.
This would be a too long and deviated version of my plea to you, Em.
In reality, it would only say three words:
‘Return to me’…
10th of June 2010
How can one stop using when it’s so difficult to stop?
You have to continue using, only less in quantity, until you reach a point where you can stop completely, a long and painful process that I find time-wasting.
Wouldn’t it be easier to stop using at all?
You would writhe in agony, desperation for a few weeks, your organs would be controlled in a wrong way by a confused brain, the brain of a junkie, but after that horrible period ends, you’d revert back to normalcy.
Pain would pass, as a fleeting moment.
If you disagree, it’s okay, it’s my own opinion that I base on my own reality, which is a very distorted version of yours, you who may or may not read these private thoughts of a diseased brain.
The reality starts like this:
Emma left me for a dream. She prefers fantasy over reality.
Why, then, doesn’t she stop existing? Why are phone calls needed after a departure?
They don’t make me miss you less,but more,almost reaching a point where even your name on someone’s lips hurts…
I shook my head when Uri reached out the phone to me, but his eyes, so filled with emotion, gave me no escape route.
Your voice was dry, humorless even when humor dripped into the receiver from your dry lips, to find nest in my ear.
You were tired…
I was tired…
…but I wasn’t tired enough to tell you what my heart screamed desperately.
I told you to work hard; you smiled (I could sense your smile) and said a dry ‘I will’ and then you disappeared around the corner.
But you’ll come back; you keep peeking from around the corner, taunting me horribly.
I gave the heavy phone to Johnny and remained staring off into space like a retard; I wanted to die, right in that moment death would’ve meant liberation.
You had to open your mouth, Johnny-boy; I was trying so hard not to cry, because a dude can’t cry, but you opened your mouth, exhaled a perfect halo of smoke (though for what you did, I’d say it missed the horns) and said what should have been obvious:
‘You miss her’
How can I not miss my life?
20th of September 2013
I don’t know how you’re reading this, I guess you won’t understand why I left seven pages empty, white, unstained by this tool of torture I accept to feed with my brain’s sick debates. No, I presume you’ll even be frustrated flipping empty page after empty page just to reach this one.
A week has passed, seven undamaged pages I couldn’t bring myself to harm with, what was then, the thoughts of a dying brain.
Oh, God…I’ve done one huge mistake I decided to consider the only good thing I’ve done in this lifetime of mine; I wish I could take it back…
Em, I’m so sorry…I’m despaired by the emptiness of the side of the bed where you used to dream, smile that dreamy smile of yours when you weren’t dreaming, cuddle in my arms and share your warmth with me when you didn’t smile.
The bed was my only refuge…I haven’t slept in days…
Exactly one week ago, at 10 p.m., I did what my body has refused to do since my mom died, no, actually, since my baby sister left this world. I had to remember a procedure my brain forgot because it was not required in any of my usual activities, oil my rusted system and use them on a nobody. Yes, this is my description of a mediocre human being whose life doesn’t produce or create.
I fucked a nobody. This is as far as my soul can degenerate, the lowest I’ve ever fallen. I don’t think I can rise back up again. I don’t have a light anymore and it’s darker in this pit…
I just fucked up my entire existence again…
I don’t even know how I had the energy to conceal my disgust from that tramp,how I could continue even after being stripped to bone by her hungry eyes and scraped on my tiny heart by her long (oh, just like a predator’s) fingernails.
Fuck!I’m just a word away from vomit, from a violent bawl that I rehearsed last night, and the night before and so on.
That’s why I’ll pass on to the next repulsive event my brain can’t forget; no matter how hungry, or dissatisfied or unnerved you are, I will not degrade myself as much as to relate the actual event that happened exactly one week ago, at 10 p.m..
The next thing my plan dictated was the one that ruined my existence; of course, I can’t possibly call it the one that ruined my existence, because my existence was ruined a long time ago, under the influence of alcohol, bu Lorelai…and later by Phil…and by mom afterwards…
I told Em. Should’ve avoided this step; her eyes (oh, Em, your eyes have always disturbed me to such a degree I forgot about the rest of the matters that disturbed me)…I can’t bear to describe them.
She seemed disappointed, betrayed; she had the eyes my parents both had after Lorelai died.
She asked me a prolonged,delayed and miniscule ‘why?’ that I couldn’t answer and so that got a replay as painful as her eyes were: her tears. She tried to cover her mouth to silence her tongue’s rebellion, but her digits weren’t strong enough.
‘I hate you’…
Reading them today hurt as much as hearing them then…
Johnny came. He always comes….
When he saw his sister’s tears, he turned to me and his digits balled into a trembling fist. I told him, as I told Em, when he asked me what I did to his sister and I got punched as a reward; it was the most painful punch I’ve ever gotten.
And then, as a contagious person, I was severed from my home by a venomous ‘Leave’ that Johnny spat through his teeth after wrapping his big arms around Em.
I wished so desperately that those arms would’ve been mine…
Nobody has contacted me in for a week; maybe they forgot about my existence or maybe they no longer care.
The only thing I regret is leaving my beast back at the hostel, because it would have lured the specters and I could’ve died; I welcome death now…no more delaying.
This is the last page of my story; today a new specter appeared…
It was me…