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Pathetic Really

February 2, 2017

The title lay flat in his hand. This was happening, and he didn’t know how to feel about it. Given just a week, the tiny cabin obtained all of Fred’s dearest items.  When the sun set on that first day after completion he drank a beer on the porch. His heart was heavy and his mind laid in cynicism. The clouds looked angry and he put that anger there. This feeling wasn’t new, he looked out on the mountain ridge and saw an avalanche in the distance. The beauty by destruction had a poetic tone that he shared. There’s a beauty in birth and death, and if he’s lucky he’ll experience it.

The dearest possessions were a notebook, a couch, a desk, a chair and spatial tension. The tiny cabin felt bare, like a large room with minor appliances. He sighed when he looked at them. The cabin, which looked like an odd art exhibit, felt callous. He was truly alone. The heart flutters at the prospect of a new love and atrophies in the lack there of. He dropped his empty bottle in the corner of the room and sat down and opened his notebook. Note after note of social constructs and observations in anthropology. The long winding road of a mentality of artistic vision is rocky at best and lays it’s victim in ruin. Petty runs aside as he jots down simple equations. A-B =C. A+B=C. The idea of a man (A), and woman (B) equalling C. A man plus a woman equals C, a family. A life with children and a myriad of possibilities with the right motivation. A man minus a woman equals C. A man in ruin, for a while. A man whom after a decade of self-delusions has granted his own epitaph with fallacies about overdramatic depression. “Here lies a great man, who had potential.” The fallacy being italicized.

The snow started to fall when his mind toiled. Drink after drink he’d medicate his depression. It’s been a decade, but his problem stood prior. His nose dripped as he felt sorry for himself. Why would the world curse me? He’d ask. The world hadn’t, but his own self-determined pitty. What was I supposed to become? Nothing, like most. People in this train of thought lead a bewilderment of self-denial that they are in fact human. The mentality drains his motives, and he grabs another drink and a pen. He writes three words down before returning to the bottle. For fucks sake. He stares at the words. They represent more to him than he’d ever understand.

The banal thought perversion he’d lie down to at night made sure to construct more insipid natured thoughts through the solution of alcohol. He was a man, he was prejudice, and bias. He was a man. So, in the ideology that he so greatly squandered he wrote his last piece. The piece: simple and plain.

Time to Forget (A Poem):

The doorbell rang

and the children fought to open it.

These are things I’ll never experience.

The light glared in

and I saw a glimpse of my father in my reflection.

We’re disappointed.

There was a reason to exist.

However, it was a lie we told ourselves in fear.

Fear that we’ve no reason.

Fear that we’re doomed from birth.

From the first instance of man.

My essence has suffered through my selfish nature.

My idea of man and life is dead.

There’s no happy ending.

What there is in life is to exist.

Perhaps it’s not exactly that easy,

but it’s not that god damned hard.

We just emphasize the wrong familiar lies.

We do this because we lack large optimistic truths.

He looked at his work and smirked, it was not good nor was it bad. Poetry lies in a gray category, and he reveled in it. The notebook held this man’s words with dedication. The only thought of what this man felt before he died because that night it was especially cold and he was especially drunk. The authorities found him months later when his rent wasn’t received for the 3rd time. A naked mess that lied on the floor.

Some of his particles left him during those months, they left a stagnate essence of pathetic pettiness. The words were read and the judgment on his life glared in the minds of its readers. This man had regrets. This man had nothing and yet he had so much potential. There’s something to be said about a person who hits rock bottom, but he craved empathy. He needed adulations or pity. Pathetic really. Life continued without the man and nobody felt his absence. If he had his goals met he would be complete. He didn’t, he thrived and thrived half-assed and in death did the same. Pathetic really. He just sort of existed for a split second, and with all those nights of self-harm he squandered what he most desperately needed to experience.

-Social constructs and ideology divide our weak out of normal fundamentals that might as well be aborted from the start. A participation trophy, as you will, for the life you lived. Good job.

From → Short Stories

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