Thursday, September 18, 2014

A Tragic Life

She sat near the glass paned window on an oak wood stool which was heavily stained from years of careless use. Sipping coffee she had made herself after some careful forethought, from a mug, she thought about her existence. The rim of the mug felt on her lips slenderly but the touch of the ceramic felt weird to her hoarse rosy flesh. It was one of those days, even the bright sun and chirping birds seemed like blinding epileptic flashes and blaring noises. Why had fate brought her to this strange and helpless point, was her survival merely a chance of cruel fate?, the dreary life was making it harder and harder by the day.

"I'm not fucking sad."

Uh, what?

"You heard me narrator guy, I am not fucking sad. Stop describing me like a melodramatic sissy. I am not one of those teenagers who're well adjusted, but still feel the need to go on about their extraordinarily tough lives."

Overcome with emotions, she felt her grip on reality deteriorating, escaping from her harsh life by trying to justify her life to a voiceless entity.

"Really, man? Fuck you! This is not another one of those pitiful and pathetic trite pieces guilty of extravagant dramatization is it?"

To find some solace in the void of ennui that was slowly but unmistakably enveloping her, she lashed out on the fictional voice describing her condition. Like trying to fight with someone who was not even there, was this what she had expected to become after all these years of never ending work?

"You're worse than high school girls writing pseudo tragic  banal paragraphs with zero content and no originality. Writing sad pieces takes virtually no talent whatsoever but still disgorges sympathy from hapless readers. Not everything has to be sad to be deep."

Everyone had a process, this was hers. What good did it do to scold a stream of bare consciousness merely describing her, only she knew. As coffee from her mug reached her throat, she stared out of the window looking at all those people having fun. Couples out for walks, little kids running aimlessly under the azure sky. Everything in the world had meaning, but it eluded her heart.

"Okay, I get what your problem is. You're a sadistic piece of scum who takes pleasure in watching little girls like me suffer your boring, not to forget absolutely false  descriptions. Is this a weird fetish I don't know about?"

Once again, she found herself in a conflicting predicament. She could face her severe problems to relieve her duress or blame it on a faceless personification. But her life had crippled and made her incapable of making challenging decisions.

" I'm not even depressed, just unwinding after a long day moron,  and you're fucking it up. Someone like you belongs to the little leagues. Next time I'll go with another narrator. You haven't even described the room yet so stop talking about my non-existent depression, pussy. "

How dare you?! A soundless voice boomed. She was too far down the rabbit hole of insanity to make sense anymore. But all was not lost, the voice would be the cold splash of water, it needed to bring her back.  She had lost herself in grief and self pity. But she was stronger than this, better than this. She was not broken.

"What kind of a narrator writes about the sadness he has never experienced? 
I know, the most vapid kind. You are like Superman talking  about how it is to be a human, or Jeffrey Dahmer writing a book on parenting. Maybe if you tried harder to write about your own original ideas than to garner fake sympathy by projecting your insecurity on a random girl you're describing, you'd be a better writer."

Now, she was just grasping at straws. Trying to hold on to any semblance of reality that was crumbling beneath her very legs. She was distraught and had given away to the naysayers.

"Don't you know it is rude to refer to someone present in the room in third person? Did your mother not teach you anything? And will you please just refer to yourself in first person already?"

Okay, okay, I get it. I am a crappy narrator and you're the bigger person over here. Thank you for ruining my only shot at getting people to think of me as a profound and intelligent person who writes about deep stuff such as the soul's lament. I hope you're proud of yourself. Bitch.  


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