Furrowing brow retreating into itself, wrinkles in the brain reflected on the forehead. “Where did you get that?” with the implication that any answer will be unacceptable; “Why?” without expecting a satisfying response. Concern is the precursor to anger, even in its sincerest most empathetic forms; concern is the brain attempting to meld with another brain and finding it wanting, and making a desperate scramble for answers before deciding upon wholesale rejection.
When you didn’t show up in School on Monday, nobody could reach you. You didn’t answer your phone and your parents didn’t either. I thought you threw in the towel because the finals had gotten the better of you and that you were out there enjoying the day, spraying “fuck School” on a wall.
On Tuesday we still hadn’t heard from you. On Wednesday our teachers didn’t ask us to try and call you anymore. We didn’t really think about the reason why.
On Thursday you still hadn’t turned up. We wrote another message on Facebook. “We are worried about you. It’s okay if you gave up on School, but disappearing like that is extreme. Please let us know you are alright. .” No answer came, as was to be expected.
Friday came around and within the first lesson, our teacher picked us up from our different Project Groups. We were almost running along the aisle, because she was walking so fast. We knew it had something to do with you. We just didn’t know how bad it would be.
Once we were all sitting down, she broke the news. Took a deep breath before speaking and told us, you had comitted suicide Monday morning and had died in the hospital Tuesday night. I will never forget my classmate’s loud scream right after.
Her brow furrowed as she listened and he shook his head, “No, stop, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not fine.”
“You worry too much,” he exhaled.
“Well telling me not to worry is not going to make me worry any less, okay?”
Her eyes are full of swirling stars, swimming in a sea of deep, lapis lazuli blue, the kind you dig up from archaeological sites and that belonged to princesses a long time ago and now is the possession of the world.
Is it possible to be concerned when you are powerless?
Is it possible to be powerless yet do something?
Is it possible to do something and not get into terrible trouble for doing it?
Is it possible to get into terrible trouble and then get out of it?
Is it possible the answer is yes to all of those questions.
Say yes then, and get on with it.
I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.
I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.
I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.
I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.
I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.
It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.
When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being thought of as nothing more than a bad memory, if even that.
Content with being nothing, if it means it doesn’t hurt.
I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.
I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.
I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.
I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.
I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.
It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.
When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being a memory, if even that.
Noah acted concerned, but I knew he wasn’t; his dark brow was furrowed, like a sleeping caterpillar, but nonetheless, his real feelings were more similar to glee rather than worry. As he watched the cashier get cuffed and dragged out of the grocery store, he turned his head toward me.
He looked concerned about something that wasn’t in the room like there was something under his bed that waited for him to leave the house so that it could climb up and explore for the day while he worked. He looked concerned because he worried that this was enslavement. He was concerned that after all he was a bad guy.
The taller man gave his accomplice a concerned look, eyebrows drawn together in the kind of disappointed frown one might expect from a father or friendly-employer.
yearning will often lead to learning
ideas start churning, your inner fire brightly burning
some will say “what you’re learning is concerning”
and as you out-level them, concerning tersely turns to spurning
“I’m a little concerned by what I see here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This … all of it.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“That’s NOT every tool I own covered in red paint?”
“Okay, it’s bad when you say it like that.”
“Stop. You’re lapsing into sitcom-speech again. This is serious.”
Furrowing brow retreating into itself, wrinkles in the brain reflected on the forehead. “Where did you get that?” with the implication that any answer will be unacceptable; “Why?” without expecting a satisfying response. Concern is the precursor to anger, even in its sincerest most empathetic forms; concern is the brain attempting to meld with another brain and finding it wanting, and making a desperate scramble for answers before deciding upon wholesale rejection.
When you didn’t show up in School on Monday, nobody could reach you. You didn’t answer your phone and your parents didn’t either. I thought you threw in the towel because the finals had gotten the better of you and that you were out there enjoying the day, spraying “fuck School” on a wall.
On Tuesday we still hadn’t heard from you. On Wednesday our teachers didn’t ask us to try and call you anymore. We didn’t really think about the reason why.
On Thursday you still hadn’t turned up. We wrote another message on Facebook. “We are worried about you. It’s okay if you gave up on School, but disappearing like that is extreme. Please let us know you are alright. .” No answer came, as was to be expected.
Friday came around and within the first lesson, our teacher picked us up from our different Project Groups. We were almost running along the aisle, because she was walking so fast. We knew it had something to do with you. We just didn’t know how bad it would be.
Once we were all sitting down, she broke the news. Took a deep breath before speaking and told us, you had comitted suicide Monday morning and had died in the hospital Tuesday night. I will never forget my classmate’s loud scream right after.
Her brow furrowed as she listened and he shook his head, “No, stop, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not fine.”
“You worry too much,” he exhaled.
“Well telling me not to worry is not going to make me worry any less, okay?”
おや、トランプ大統領。こりゃ意見ではなくて、事実のこと。証明がないと、何に「違う」って言ってるんと、「違う」って足りない。
You’re wrong.
笑えるね、
最も最悪の罪はどれでしょう。自分で分かるかい。
わからないって決まってる。あんた、そういう人さかいに。
「弱虫」って、許されること。かも。
「大変間違っちゃった」って、許されること。かも。
「間違って、さらに悪いことに操るため、わざと何回も嘘つく」って、
許されないこと。絶対。
彼女に最低の最悪の嘘ついた。さらに、私に、「全部言っちゃたよ、ゼ。ン。ブ。彼女にちゃんと説明した」って、嘘。
最初から嘘。「君がうちの家に泊まってること、彼女知ってるはず。
「彼女、君に関する恋って、知ってる。」
「彼女、君も付き合ってもいいの質問にきいた時、チョット・ダケ不安を感じたらしい。」
心の奥底、ずっと知ってたよね。でも、君に信じたがったから。。。それより、信じるの方が簡単って。。。無視した。
私がそういう人さかいに。
でもこんなにひどく嘘をついされたのは、知らなかった。彼女に。
あんた、ホンマに最悪でしょ。
弱さに負ける時、誰でもにある。
つい間違いする時、誰でもにある。
だって、分かるもんばかり。
嘘は、いつも、イツモ、わざとにする。いつも、イツモ、操るため。私たち、馬鹿にされた。贖い機会があったけど、無駄使いにした。
だって、私に、全然理解できない。ゼッタイニ、私、彼女も、君をそんなに馬鹿にしないよ、一生。何があっても。
あんた、いったい何様。
共通点があって、嬉しかったもん。私と似ってる人に出会って、どんなに嬉しいか。
でもそれも嘘だったね。君と、まったく全然似ってないわ。
この一年間、私の弱さ、私の間違いも大変重ねってきちゃった。一生背負い続ける。でも、嘘なんてついてない。こんなに大変の嘘、一生ついたことない。でも君はね、たまらわずに何回も軽くてつてしまった。
誰もあんたを信用できるもんか。
私たち、全然似ってない。
気軽にブロックしてない。君が、そういう人と気づいたからした。私、彼女、君のための操る人形じゃない。そういう扱いされて、汚らわしい。
もう悲しくない。痛くない。ただムカムカで、愛想を尽かす。あんたは他の奴と違わない。
やっと事実を知って、よかった。
Her eyes are full of swirling stars, swimming in a sea of deep, lapis lazuli blue, the kind you dig up from archaeological sites and that belonged to princesses a long time ago and now is the possession of the world.
Is it possible to be concerned when you are powerless?
Is it possible to be powerless yet do something?
Is it possible to do something and not get into terrible trouble for doing it?
Is it possible to get into terrible trouble and then get out of it?
Is it possible the answer is yes to all of those questions.
Say yes then, and get on with it.
I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.
I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.
I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.
I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.
I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.
It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.
When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being thought of as nothing more than a bad memory, if even that.
Content with being nothing, if it means it doesn’t hurt.
I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.
I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.
I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.
I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.
I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.
It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.
When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being a memory, if even that.
Content with being nothing.
Noah acted concerned, but I knew he wasn’t; his dark brow was furrowed, like a sleeping caterpillar, but nonetheless, his real feelings were more similar to glee rather than worry. As he watched the cashier get cuffed and dragged out of the grocery store, he turned his head toward me.
“So…did he find meth on him, or weed?” he asked.
I stared at him. “Neither.”
He looked concerned about something that wasn’t in the room like there was something under his bed that waited for him to leave the house so that it could climb up and explore for the day while he worked. He looked concerned because he worried that this was enslavement. He was concerned that after all he was a bad guy.
The taller man gave his accomplice a concerned look, eyebrows drawn together in the kind of disappointed frown one might expect from a father or friendly-employer.
yearning will often lead to learning
ideas start churning, your inner fire brightly burning
some will say “what you’re learning is concerning”
and as you out-level them, concerning tersely turns to spurning
I’m not concerned when I see my opponent. I’ve always wanted to fight them, even though they’re intimidating physically and their skills as well.
“I’m a little concerned by what I see here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This … all of it.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“That’s NOT every tool I own covered in red paint?”
“Okay, it’s bad when you say it like that.”
“Stop. You’re lapsing into sitcom-speech again. This is serious.”