SICK SAD WORLD

There are things that are ephemeral – watching the most beautiful sunset, falling into a fast yet shallow love – these things are over before they begin.  And that’s sad, but at the same time… it’s safe.  They’re over before we know it.  We don’t dwell in them for too long – and if we do, we move on from them with time.  Ephemeral is beautiful.

            But eternity – that’s where the problem lies.

            Falling deeply in love.  Resenting oneself.  Living with guilt.  Those are weights that we carry with us for our entire lives.  Those weights are forever.  Even love is a prison – some people believe being in love is freeing, but is it really?  True love binds us to others.  It ties us down.  Love is an eternal labor, and each of us slaves away until our last breath.

            Forever is Hell.  Things aren’t meant to last – humans especially.  We are built like hourglasses glued to a desk, simply going and going until our time runs out.  Nothing can change that.  My own worst nightmare is immortality.  Never to die would be a hell – forever stranded on Earth, while others around me would come and go.  That’s not the way things are meant to be.  It’s not natural.

            I wish things wouldn’t last so long.  All good things come to and end, and I have accepted that.  But the bad things – the bad things never seem to go away.  We can run from them – run and run and run – but we’ll never be free.  They are the things that we carry with us throughout eternity.  They are the hell that is Forever.

            Things that change like the tides are beautiful.  Unexpected.  Fresh.  Easy.  Shallow, and never requiring much of us.

            But things that are forever – those things are what will take from us.  Take, and never give back.  Those are the things that we bear for all time.  Think of Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  He is doomed to carry that weight perpetually.

            Forever is prison.  That’s the real hell of things.  

I feel as if I’m walking around with a Toni Morrison quotation written on a bright yellow Post-It and stuck to my forehead. Every time I see someone, I wonder what they think. I feel as though it’s so obvious- as if they all must know. It’s so clear- how could they not? I half expect them to ask me about it and tell me everything’s all right.

But it seems as if no one can read what’s written. It’s in hieroglyphics  or something- some language no one here (or anywhere, for that matter) can understand.

It makes me feel so exposed, even though I know that in reality, I’m the only one who knows I’m walking around with this goddamn yellow Post-It. I’m the only one who can fucking read it.

I wish I could rip it off. Crumple it in my fist. Throw it in the trash can and forget about it.

I can hear someone crying. Gasping. Whimpering. The sound of their hurt is coming in through the vents. That’s the thing about this dorm- thick walls, thick doors, but vents. I can hear her sobs crystal clear. I want to go to her and tell her it’s okay, that everything is going to be all right, but I probably don’t know her, and she probably doesn’t want me there. 

The thing about this school is that it drives you absolutely mad. Eighty percent of the school is in counseling, and I guess now I know why.

Post-It note, Post-It note, Post-It note.

“She left me the way people leave a hotel room.”