Friday, July 29, 2011

Depressingness

The sadness of not having any followers is starting to overwhelm me. Get control of yourself, Monty, it's not that emotional.  But it is! My life is over! How will I ever move on? Do people only pretend to be my friend? Does the universe really go on forever? Why can't my dog speak to me? Do I actually exist, or am I just a fragment of someone's imagination? Why are they called stairs inside but steps outside? Why is it called alcoholics anonymous when the first thing you do is stand up and say "hi, my name's Bob. I'm an alcoholic"? If a person owns a piece of land, do they own it all the way down to the center of the earth? WHY DON'T WE HAVE ANY FOLLOWERS??!!!! 


In light of my depressed mood today, I will post a depressing story:




Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. His doubts and apprehension had been growing over the past few minutes. Chris breathed deeply, as Dr. Vesta had told him to do in situations like this, and pressed his nose against the Mazda’s glass, watching the cars go by around him. Each of those people has a story, each has there own troubles and issues, thought Chris. It was overwhelming, and he turned away, closing his eyes and letting the darkness envelop him. He didn’t want to think right now, didn’t want to worry about the meeting ahead. If only he had the power to close off his mind, and stop the constant flow of information, and memories. Memories that he wanted to forget.
Chris had no desire to go back, but Susan believed that he had to face his fears, and that it was better to make the trip now than years in the future. She looked back at him from her seat at the wheel, smiling. “Well, this is it. Just a little longer.” Noticing that he wasn’t returning her grin, she said “Come on, you haven’t seen her for two years. Just give her these moments, ok.” Chris turned back towards the window, where the interstate’s concrete walls had transformed into Spruce trees, bedecked by the golden brown hues of autumn. Chris watched the rush of leaves, their colors bringing him back to a warm autumn afternoon a few years before.
Chris sat amidst a large pile of leaves, pretending he was a king perched on his throne. He surveyed the large expanse of concrete sidewalk before him, and ordered an invisible servant to give him a foot massage. “Aaaahh, that feels better,” Chris remarked to no one in particular, leaning into the bed of leaves. He closed his eyes, letting the sun’s heat engulf him, letting himself be taken by the last hints of summer.
Chris was jolted up abruptly by a deep gravelly voice above him, “Hey kid, watcha doin’ here this late? You don’t wanna be hangin’ around Severn Ave when it’s dark, let me tell you.” Chris must have fallen asleep by accident, for the sky was darkening to a deep pastel, and the sun had already disappeared behind the 7-11. Chris got up, waved goodbye to the man, and skipped his way home.
It was from a block away that he saw them. Two police cars, their blazing light illuminating the darkening street. An ambulance was stationed next to them; it’s back open and gaping, as if about to swallow someone whole. Chris’s breath caught in his throat, and an icy hand seemed to grip at his insides. He let out a yell, and sprinted towards the lights.
He should have stopped then. Chris looked back now, and wished he had run as fast as he could in the opposite direction. If he had, it would have saved him the sight of his mother, sprawled on a stretcher, her body ghostly white. It would have saved him from the voices, for a crowd of neighbors had gathered, saying, “The woman tried to kill herself.” Their words felt like knives to Chris even now, years after. He recalled the long trips to the hospital, hours in the waiting room, and awkward moments filled with silence. Then Chris moved in with a foster family three hours away, and after the turnout of his last visit with his mom, had simply refused to go.
“Chris, we’re here. Come on, wake up buddy,” Susan’s voice reached him from the front of the car. Chris breathed deeply and opened his door, taking a very long time to do so. The pair walked up the block together in silence, as if there was a wall separating them from each other. Chris pretended to be interested in the sidewalk cracks, his eyes following each line, studying each weed. Susan pulled open the gate, and Chris looked up. And there she was. Her smile illuminated in the sunlight, her arms open and outstretched. Chris stared into her eyes, a warm recognizable light brown, and he realized that maybe he did have the ability to forgive. His mouth tilted up for a fraction of a second. 

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