I'm going to die. I can't tell you where, I can't tell you when. who knows? I could die after posting this, or even before I finis
Hello again, my only friend. I wish I could tell the world all that I can tell you. But I know that once I share my truth, my time will come to an end. So thank you, dear diary, thank you for listening to me every time I break down, and thank you so much, my tear-absorbent friend, for giving me the space to be me.
Today this girl named Clairise, who thinks that we are close, poured out to me all of her worries. She says that she is at a strange point in her life, she wishes that I could understand. She says that everything around her is changing and that she doesn't know who she is. I nodded nervously as she spoke, scared that she will find out I'm a fraud. She didn't I guess, I'm still here. I think she thought I was empathizing with her, she told me how appreciative of me she was, that she could confide in me, that I could listen to her.
I had therapy this past Tuesday, Dr. Stephens says that I could do with opening up more, he says that my depression hasn't gotten worse, but it surely hasn't gotten better. I agree with him. He says that if I socialized and built up a group of friends that support me, then I would be set. I wish that were an option. Don't get me wrong, dear diary, it's not that I dislike people, I love them so much, and small talk is great. But small talk is hollow it goes cold when you cling onto it for so long. I don't dare get any closer though, I can get by with only being friends with you, dear diary.
I need to go, but thank you for holding close to you everything I say, and thank you once again, dear friend.
Sometimes I cry when writing isn’t an option.
Writing is difficult, I think that's the issue. It looks like it should be easy, what do you even do? type or scrawl down words? Everyone does that to some extent. I have no room to make a fuss.
But here I am, fussing about writing. That's because writing is easy, until its impossible. I've built up my expectations of my writing, but now those expectations are a blockade, keeping myself from improving, halting myself from moving forward.
This is only made more messy, my friend, when we take into account that writing is an art form. Its utilized to express whatever is going on under the fleshy masks we've got on. Writing can be meditative, educational, and expressive, so why is it so hard? Why do I end up crying over the blank paper? Why do I sometimes cry when writing isn't an option?
Hero vs Amaranth
There he stood atop the skyscraper staring down at the setting sun, his hair dancing in the wind and his belly filled with delicious pasta.
Go on, Hero, do your thing, but next time, wear sunglasses while staring at the sun.
Do you hear that, Hero? A crime is occurring.
Go on, Hero, do your thing, but this time, don't let the thugs knock you unconscious with a crowbar.
Do you remember how much that hurt?
The readers do.
Good job, Hero! Your moves were swift, and your one-liner was impressive.
The people of this city are proud. But that doesn't matter to you, Hero, doesn't it?
You do this simply to help out, what a hero.
But Hero, what if you ever want more? what then?
What happens when you decide that getting knocked unconscious from a crowbar comes at a cost? That if you're going to get hurt, then the least the city should do is pay you a salary.
Who will you be then, Hero?
You don't have time for these thoughts, Hero. Your job isn't to have thoughts, that's my job. You are supposed to fight crime. There is no better time to fight crime too, Amaranth is back.
Do you remember Amaranth?
"No"?? Hero, you have gotten kicked in the head too often.
She's the kick-butt evil nemesis who wears the cool costume and is surrounded by a poisonous fog.
What? "You think she looks really cool"?
So do the readers, they tend to prefer the villains. The readers think that she's cooler than you, that her arc is compelling.
Don't be mad, Hero! It's just how it is.
You don't have time to be mad, Hero, you need to figure out how you're going to take her down.
When you fight her, can you please do so in close combat? I know her poisonous fog will make that difficult, but it'll look really cool, and this story needs some spice.
Come on, Hero! seriously? Why not? I understand it'll be difficult, but this is important!
Nowadays, it's hard to get longtime readers unless they either like the hero or the villain and nobody likes you, so you need to give her screen time to show how cool she is and looks.
You're right, Hero, You're right. that was mean of me to say. It's just that you never really have any opinions, you never say anything, how is anyone supposed to think that you're cool?
How DARE you say that about me?? I have done so much! I record all of your great deeds so that people can like you and now you blame ME for not even giving you a voice in the comic that I made about YOU? You're insane! I have written you up to seem truly cool, and now all you can do is complain, huh? Well if you don't like me and all that I do for you, then forget it! just leave!
Hero? wait. I didn't mean that. Hey! HEY! Hero, come back! don't go, we just took things too far. WOOOOW look at you now, acting all high and mighty. Don't run away! What should I even call you now? You're sure no hero.
Thank you for reading this chapter of Hero vs Amaranth, I'm not sure if there will be anything to tune into next time, thanks to Hero abandoning me.
He lost his hat.
maybe it was the cold weather that made me notice what he had lost, maybe it was the now-present grey hair that was free to dance in the wind. He didn't act like he had lost something, but everyone in this barren town knew that he did. It was a part of him, he was the old man in the warn newsboy hat, but who was he now? Admittedly, I don't know. I mean, I've seen him hobble through the park on Sunday afternoons, gently waving at the squirrels who seemingly recognized him. Would they remember him now, without his hat? or do they know him better than me? I wouldn't be shocked if that were the case, my friends walked past him one day and he was talking to the squirrels.
I've never talked to him, only about him. Whenever my parents hear my friends and me talking about the mystery of the old man in the warn newsboy hat, they tell us to knock it off. They say that for what he's done for this town, our respect is the least of what he deserves. Apparently, when he was in his prime, this town actually had a school! It was a bustling center in the middle of nowhere. Now, my friend group is the only group of children here. This town grew with the old man without the warn newsboy hat, and I wouldn't be surprised if it died with him.
A long time ago, the old man without the warn newsboy hat lost whatever it was that saved this town, now, he lost his hat.
It's very easy, I've found
to become lost in the sound
the bustle of life which is always around
the booming conditions in which I have drowned
But when I sit still, without moving a muscle
when I pay no attention to all that does bustle
when I separate myself from the world that shaped me
that, my friend, THAT is when I am set free.
There is no other time in which I understand
the sound of life, so glorious and grand
the knowledge that Earth, so scarred and hurt
is far, far more than a just pile of dirt.
She breathes and sings her gentle song
for listeners, anyone, to sing along.
Because I have immersed myself in what I thought to be living
that cold concrete towers had a heart that was beating,
I have become uncomfortable with the peaceful feeling
of stillness and silence, short of her singing.
For what am I without my busy way of life?
what would I do without my troubles and strife?
I have yet to hear her answer, that I know
all I can do is wait, and listen to her song ebb and flow.
the men with the beards
Aristotle was cocky,
that, we all know.
but his perspective on madness,
that, has got to go.
He swam against the current,
sure, that builds some strength.
but he used philosophy to excuse his sexism,
which he talked about at length.
Aristotle was a good thinker
but his thoughts weren't that great.
he worked hard to understand deep truths,
but his biases were filled with hate.
That's the problem with fawning over philosophers, you see,
they speak from their perspectives, not of that from you or me.
We learn more about the experiences of the men with the beards,
those are THEIR ideologies that make philosophers seem weird.
before I go, let me leave you with my strange take,
you are your philosophy in action and the decisions that you make.