I Walk This Lonely Road (Writing Entry)

I walk a lonely road, the only one that I’ve ever known.  No one wants to be around an outcast, no one cares if what I believe matches their hearts.  They do not know me and their ignorance gives them a reason to fear me.  Perhaps they should fear me.  No one pauses to give sympathy to the dying, after all.  It is only when time is far gone, when calls are too late, that people ask what they could have done.  Could they have stopped this?

Why do people not stop and think, decide to care, before tragedy strikes?  Life is fragile and people are so willing to cut down on everyone else, anyone they see as weak.  Yet, some “weak” get sympathy.  They turn to drugs, to black clothing and hair, to piercings, to haunting poems in abandoned caverns . . .  And people give them sympathy, because they make a show that they can’t hold on.  They make a spectacular that they want someone’s hand.  But what about me?

Yes, what about me . . .  I’m not dressed in black clothes.  My hair isn’t dyed to a bluish-black.  My nails are unmanicured, unpainted, my face is pale simply bacuse that is my skin tone.  Not because I remain locked away in a dank pit one calls a room.  I only have my ears pierced, but never wear earrings, and the only poetry I wrote was for English class.

I have no distinguishable features.  No jewelry.  My hands are too shaky to clasp a necklace around my neck or a bracelet around my wrist, anyway.  They’ve been shaky for about a week now.  For you see, today is the day.  Today, no more pain is brought to me.  Today, I will burst out of this living Hell, this tortured nightmare of waking dreams and frightful curses.  Today, I will begin to live, or I will die from the attempt.

After all, who cares which?