A Considerable Pronouncement

I decided against the typical procedures, I was not one to buy into popularity. But I could not deny my intrigue, my excitement for the thing. I was to go, I knew it, but how was another question entirely. I had not the means or the courage or the status. I found not myself to blame for this, but everything else. The universe had plotted this maze, had placed me in the middle. Existence had settled itself above me, watching heartily. Fine by me, I would tackle prosperity and truly happiness. I would. I had to.

I find it not too extreme to recall hatred. More over, hatred for and consuming my very self. Simply, I held only a brief and cold inclination toward who it is that I was. This detestation could only further my dilemma. And it did, very much so. When amongst the inner arena, one can not find the space for focus on the outer of the same. Only another reason for my place- or, should I say, excuse.

Being young and disliked by all, including me, my behavior became an inward operation. In this way, I found the ability to obscure truth. For, when dealing with only one mind, a dictated system can hedge a path. Mine became one of misunderstandings and punishments. So in the world of the I, I found that I misunderstood and that others were forced into the position of punishing.

To be fair, it is sense that finds fault. I do realize that my decisions were clouded, even extreme, but the sensible masses, the conceptual battlefield of logic, was littered with pieces of my dreams. I found difficulty in believing in sense when such horrid and inexplicable acts were being committed in my direction. I had done nothing but be, so this must have been my crime. I had to turn away from sense, if I had not, if I had existed there until my demise, well, then, I imagine what came would have come much sooner.

I ask myself, for the sake of regret, to repent. And, often times, I do indeed find myself conveying such emotion. I do. At times. But in the small minority of the life I lead, I see another answer. The thing is small and weary, asking only to be heard. He comes in subtlety and leaves in a manner befitting the same. He crawls into my arms and I cradle him. He whimpers his words and is left with no more. And then, in this single moment, this one minute conveyance, I see. I see exactly what it is that I did, and, quite succinctly, why I did it. And I can not help but feel good. I feel good. This, sadly, is not a commonality.

I apologize for my tangents. I find a complete necessity in telling that which is the story, regardless of obvious relevance. So, to continue. I was seventeen and I wanted to go to Prom. The dance that every high school kid looks forward to. The dance that means something for no other reason then it does. The dance I wanted more than anything that I have ever wanted. The dance that I secretly knew I would not go to. The dance I spoke out against. The dance I pretended to not care about. The dance. The silly, little dance. The dance that meant a bit more than that. The dance that was in every way a dream. And dreams, I knew, were not made for me.

In my head I was safe from ridicule. I found the incessant disclosure of my worth extremely humiliating. But I could not allow them to see. I had to find some way of preventing the true to air. For all I had left was what I could conceal. To understand, while, I admit, is difficult, one must realize what it is that I had to be. Explanation is of no design. Either clarity or distortion. The choice is of the rest.

And I did ask someone, didn’t I? Yes, I did. Sadly, though, she did not incline to attend. What I found in rejection was something new, something I had not felt before. Something that had been of brood. A build of a contemptuous nature. An anger that found absolution. Denial, anymore, would not hold strong. So, then, I did what I did.

I was not one to buy into popularity. No. So, they went first. Then as many of the rest as I could find. I never found her though. I never found she who willed the anger. I find gladness for that. I do. I am glad. Happy. Yes, I am happy.

What I did was wrong. Yes. Universally wrong. Wrong, in a sense. I know all of this. I have heard it for many, many years. But the question stays still- do I feel justification? I do not say, I never have. But the query meets its end in the mind. And I know the answer. Well, to be fair, I know an answer. One, if recalled, may not find footing. So I stay and sit and think. And I brood, but, for now, in a good way.

A guy