Little scented candles

LessThanZero

Little scented candles

8

14/10/09 à 13:26

"The alarm went off, and I woke up. I didn't really sleep actually, I remember being on skype with John almost all night, and he didn't really understood what everything was about.
The tone in my voice was clear, and behind this awkward french accent, he couldn't feel how unreal the situation was.
I was standing there, on a chair, where she sat, when more than a dozen of people sat, almost in the backyard, where the night was covering everything, and the cold wind had already started to blow, during this late may night.
I don't really remember what happened, and what we talked about, because nothing was really relevant at the moment. Nothing had substance, or even was scalable.
There was no point in talking, or even moving my feet, clicking the computer's mouse, drinking cups of coffee, smoking countless cigarettes, remembering the past or grieving.
Although I was supposed to, I couldn't really feel anything, or just pull myself together, feeling in a strange and yet horrid bubble of absence of feelings, dim and lukewarm comfort where myself wasn't really thinking, imagining and sizing things.
The night flew pretty fast, and before I had the time to acknowledge that every single detail of the room was still painted by the trace of her past life, it was morning.
Good mourning sunshine.
I was still talking to John, sitting in the backyard this time, since the sun had started to rise, and I think, even though I wasn't really able to think, it was beautiful outside.
Real beautiful, with all the full spring package including birds, beautiful sunrise glow and amazing shadows drawn by the shadows from the tree, she used to take time gardening.

Someone woke up, and I quickly had to explain myself about my unabilty to sleep that night, explaining I just couldn't sleep, and the grief was on her face.
She was mourning, and deep down, she knew this day was awful, and yet, to be remembered for ever. She was trying to smile, talk a lot, giving me another cup of coffee, as if my cafein rate wasn't already hitting the roof. But it didn't matter, for once in my life, I needed to swallow my pride and seek social contact. Talk, even if it was only to speak. She was mumbling about the fact she needed to be at the hospital really early, since she was the only one who would be there anyway.
She asked me to cut down some flowers from the backyard, because she loved the roses she had planted.
Wait. Wait.
This is way too sad.
I should stop right here and put that in another way.
People are afraid to merge on the freeways in Los Angeles.
Because they're afraid to commit. Or afraid to lose their lives. It doesn' treally matter to know exactly why they're afraid, all you have to acknowledge is the proper fact of fear they feel when they're about to merge.
Because no one cares about the reasons of a fear, a grief, or even the tears you shed in your bed at night, when you realize you're a failure.
They just don't give a fuck about your personnal life and the way you've been treated to reach the point you're at.
I perosnnaly don't give a crap. Nobody really does. If someone sees you crying in the subway, all you will get are curious stares, some odd laughters, and a horny pervert trying to get you in his bed after he dries up your tears.
No one will give you sympathy, since everyone is looking for something in return.
There's no real giving away, no "I dedicate my life to make people happy."
And if you don't trust me, just think about it when you check the wages you'll get if you accept this job.
Truth is, you're all fucking selfish bastards. And I must admit I'm pretty angry at you for that; you just don't give a flying shit about the people around you.
That sounds like an existencial crisis. Doesn't it. That's because it is you fucking morron. Nobody cares if you exist or not, no one wants to know if you're doing better, or just worse. They all want the juicy information between the death of a relative, just so they can share it with another person and feel the thrill of power drifting through their minds. Just for a second of fame in their social circles.
And if it doesn't work, you invent yourself some fancy desease, real pleasant, and with incredibly amazing symptoms, so you can be even more special. Because when you don't have information anymore, you seek attention. And when people give you that attention, you like their presence even more.
You don't care about becoming the fucking lame weirdo, the sick freak, because all you need is attention. All you need is people giving you something, and you, not giving them something in return.
You make an existencial crisis every day of your life. When you hum a song, or read a poem, when you write those lines, or just read them, when you got to the bakery and try to share some words with that cunt, who, by the way, is fucking the hairdresser from the street corner.
But you don't mind their background or past, you just don't consider it, you discharge yourself from that weight, because you consider it irrelevant.
You know, a month ago, I had to do some blood tests and I was scared, the shit out of me. But when I bumped into the man in the street, there was no pity in his eyes, there was no "I'm sorry, maybe you're sad, maybe you're having a lame and tough day, maybe I should apologize."
No, there was only a nonchalant and despised look, implying a request for an apology -which I didn't give- because he needed to feel like he was right.
Like in some way, he had teh right to recieve that social respect I needed to give.
Just like this woman, I remember from a movie, and she was a very good actress, where she was Hitler's secretary, who had tp cross Russian's lines, that is enemy lines, to save her life.
And For a good Bolchevik soldier, that cunt was accomplice and partly responsible for the death of probably thousand people.
For a good Staline's soldier, and a dumb thinker, she should be killed right away.
And in her mind, there was fear. And it was funny, because even though it was just a movie, I could feel the fear in her eyes. The fear of being misdjudged, the fear of being assassinated in the name of nothing. She was scared teh hsit out of her, because at this very moment, no one was aware, or dared care about what she had been through.
No one cared about her husband dead on the field, or the fact she didn't even know what she was doing.
It's funny how I've seen an interview of that woman, and she said something that blown me away.
She said: "I tried no to think about it, try to pass it on my youth. But when I saw thecommemorative plaque that was attached in honnour of the Jewish people who got killed, I read the name of a girl who was born the same year as I was, and who died the first day of my work at Hitler's office. Then, I realized that even young, I should have gone deeper, and thought about what was behind this."
It's funny how everyone would agree with that. And yet, you fucking advices giver, would never wonder what that girl in the subway was going through. If you bumped into me today, in the streets, you wouldn't wonder what the hell I could be going through. You woudln't try to excuse my acts, because no one cares about what's in between.

So, no, she shouldn't have done that. She shouldn't feel guilty, because no one does.
Only a person that is deeply human could do that. Only someone that doesn't care about himself could be able to deny themself and say: "I feel guilty, because I didn't think enough."
And now, she's haunted, and she can't sleep at night. But, tell me, are you gonna be able to sleep tonight, despite the fact you didn't give a had to that woman who's gonna get raped right after you left her?
Are you going to be able to sleep despite the fact you didn't hand a coin to that tramp who might die tonight?
Sure you will, you egocentric fucker.

Truth is, we're scum. Hitler was a scum, you are a scum, and so am I. Doesn't matter if you've tried to exterminate a whole race or religion, no matter what you've done, or what you haven't done, you're a dirty scumbag filled with filth trying not to spatter all your dirty scum on the world.
And when you do, you just frenetically answer: "Everyone one else is doing it, so why can't I?"

There's no good and bad until a majority draws the line. Something totally legal and anjoyable in a country can be condemned with death penalty in another, and we don't really mind, because we don't care."
"So it's all about caring, ins't it?"
"Pretty much."
"I'm happy you finally consider people in your reflection."
"I don't. Really. I think everyone is a scumbag filled with filth."
"Yes you do, but at least you consider them in your life."
"Do I have to explain everything to you? Are you fucking retarded?"
"What do you mean?"
"Considering people isn't necessarily better than ignoring them. Just like being feared can sometimes be preferable when you can't be loved.
It is not better, or worse, you're way too manichean, it's just preferable. Something making things easier to stand. Easier to deal with, something preferable.
I don't enjoy the company of people, nor yours to be honnest, but this is preferable this way.
This is now preferable for me to consider people like restless cunts than not considering them at all. But it doesn't make me feel better. It complicates the process to the infinity of people living down there. Because now, I have to care. Because I'm not like everybody else."
"You like being special, don't you?"
"Those tag questions are starting to be really lame Dr."
"I'm just stating facts."
"And the sky is blue. Bla bla. What I mean is, I don't like being special, people are just different from me, and I'm different from them, this is not mutually exclusive.
No I have to care about those meaningless bugs, and consider them when I act, because when they don't care, I do. I do it for myself. Like Hitler's secretary. I deny myself and choose to try to understand them to the most. This might kill me, and I might never be able to reach this, but at least, I'm not lying to myself."
"Why do you insist on caring, if no one does, why should you?"
"Because I'm not a scumbag. Because if I care, maybe the pain will get better, and maybe if I try to feel, even if I get hurt, at least I will feel, and that will be a relief."
"That reminds me of one of our past sessions."
"I know, I'm recycling. I may be a rapist, but at least I recycle."
"That's not funny."
"How isn't it funny?"
"You're going back in madness Julian, calm down."
"Shut the fuck up. I'm totally fine. Stop thinking I'm a fool, we're not so different you and I. This perfectly illustrates my theory about people. An asylum is a place for sick people. I'm not very far from total loss of control, and pure insanity. And yet, I'm capable of having a really nice conversation with someone like you. It's all about crazy people who are not really crazy, and messias who are not really messias. It's really all about considering one second, that even though I'm different, you're different, and they're different, they have their own fucking world, and scumbags like you, and them, crush their little world, in the name of their own little world."
"Are you trying to tell me something? I don't really understand what you mean."
"See? That hurts. A lot. Misunderstood. Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.
I'll take a practical example for you.
I'm pretty pretencious and hot, so let's take me.
On the outside, regular teenager, following language studies, already able to mumble in 5 languages, who doesn't give a shit about poor people. Looks wealthy, cultured, and like any other teenager, emo and self-absorbed.
On the inside, in the meantime, I'm a deeply sad 19 years old boy, who isn't passed all the people who died around him, who lives in a community ghetto, and who's probably poorer than the people he despises."
"That only makes you emo."
"Shut the hell up."
"No. It really does. 18% of the population of that country is suffering from depression. 18 fucking percent, so just get back down to the ground and look around you. You're not a martyr or a slave. You're just a lame teenager who thinks too much."
"You made me this way."
"I beg you pardon?"
"You made me this way. You should be the one getting up and mving your fat ass, and feel guilty. You're one of them. A scumbag, you will never take the blame, because it'd make you feel like shit. But maybe you're shitty. Maybe you failed your life, maybe you should kill you self. You made me this way. Every word you told me, every look you gave me, every nod, is etched in my mind forever. I wasn't born this way. I wasn't fucking born this way."
"Maybe I should. But what if I don't want to? What if taking the blame isn't something I want to soncider?"
"Then you're a scumbag."
I get up really quickly, take my bag, and thread my way, avoiding the sofa, getting ready to leave.
By the moment he realizes I'm going to leave, and probably never come back, he regrets, and he looks straight at me, and tried to stop me:
"Don't do that. Don't leave. You're not cured. You're not doing better, and never will if--"
"I don't care about doing better, you just proved me you were a scumbag. You're a goddamn shrink. You're supposed to care."
"To a certain extent."
"Fuck you."
I slam the door violently and quickly realize it's really stupid, really teenage-ish. I also forgot my Xanax prescription inside, and as far as I'm concerned, I'd rather be fucked up tonight.
I open the door and don't even look at him, rip the precription from the desk and just leave.
He's sitting silently, supping his tea, fucking useless prick.
I don't slam the door this time.
I'm on the streets.
The cars honking, the people running, or walking, lights from the night shining through my eyes, music playing somewhere, all of this makes me sick. I can't stand it. I'm blowing up. It had to happen. I'm merely exploding and yet again, no one cares.
I can't face it. I can't face it. I can't face it.
I run. As fast as I can, until my legs don't feel anymore, I run, until my heart it aches, until my heart it breaks. Because I have nothing more to live for.

BloodChild  

LessThanZero  

LessThanZero  

LessThanZero  

Bastard Barbie  

Little scented candles

6/8

22/10/2009 à 15:31

J'aime les gens qui se prennent pas pour de la merde

To be honest, j'ai trouvé ça chiant au point que j'aurais pu m'endormir 5 fois avant la fin.
Si c'était un roman, je suppose que ça pourrait le faire, mais pour un texte publié sur un forum pour ados je trouve ça bien trop pompeux et bien trop égocentrique de ta part - surtout en voyant comment tu accueilles les critiques.

Punker  

Little scented candles

8/8

22/10/2009 à 19:35

Ben moi, j'aurais préféré en chinois.