again, living a temporary life
22 Diaries. Story eleven
How did I find myself there? Why?
That’s the questions I keep asking myself.
At first I thought it was a great place to grow and learn new things. It wasn’t.
Then I thought it was about you, because I’ve never experienced a connection like this before. But you turned out to be a liar.
I believe that things happen for a reason, hence the questions I keep asking myself over and over again. Why?
This story was supposed to be addressed to you, but I don’t feel like I can trust you anymore. So, there it is as follows:
I know I’ve been here before, in this place. All the people and all the events. I’ve met them, I’ve seen them. The feeling is so strong that I almost cannot deny that this is the right thing, no matter how wrong it may seem.
You once told me that everything is written in the stars, that She plays every part in our lives, that everything gets Her way. I remember that it came with such a relieve, because it meant that we don’t have to worry about anything…
Perhaps, the thing I thought I was wasn’t true. Perhaps, I believed in the image of me that people created. Hearing everyday how good and unique I was, I believed I was good and unique. Perhaps, what I am is the thing I am right now. Nothing more.
All the things I learnt were just useless things easy to learn. Life itself wasn’t written in the book, though. That’s why I didn’t know how to learn it. That’s why I don’t know how to live a life that doesn’t go beyond the cover of the book. The real life.
And this is what makes a lot of sense.
22 Diaries. Story ten
Once I said to someone that I felt drained, out of energy, mentally tired. They asked: ‘Why won’t you do something for yourself?’
I assume he wanted to suggest I buy something to myself or travel somewhere or go out for a dinner. The thing is, I do a lot for myself. I buy myself flowers, I take baths with bubbles, I eat chocolate, I travel a lot and I buy pretty things.
As a half orphan I feel the sense of abandonment under my skin. I learnt that you can never rely on other people. It doesn’t matter what they say and how many promises they make. They can never love you as much as you can love yourself. So, yeah, believe me I know how to take care of myself. Physically… at least.
I do not believe that material possessions can heal your crying soul. Wonder why I’m so tired? Because I was dismissed. Because my skills apparently meant nothing. Because I wasn’t good enough. That is what pains me more. You do not have to love me, but you have to need me as a professional. Without it I feel useless.
The forgotten dreams lie heavily on me, crashing my inner self of belonging, where towers collapse releasing demons, which chase me every day.
And this is where it begins…
22 Diaries. Story nine
I hope you are (un)well.
I am writing because I have a lot to say, or a lot on my mind I should say.
You probably do not think about me. You probably erased me from your thoughts like chalk from a board. That is what you do, is it not? You erase everyone and everything that brings a whit of contemplation. A life on a white board, where you feel nothing. Where you see nothing but your notes.
You probably do not know what damage you caused. You probably are comfortably sat back in your chair already. I cannot blame you really, since I knew what you were. An egocentric, deprived of empathy, living only in his circle and caring only what’s in it. Like the robots that you build.
You probably do not know how much I cared. You probably do not realize how important it was to me. Being in a place where the sun shines at you in a midday. It does not matter, though, because you turned out to be a snake, swimming in the calm waters of my life.
Tell me now how do I explain myself to other people without telling lies. Tell me now why should I engage with people, knowing how cold they can turn.
I do not care what you have to say. I do not care if you hate me. I do not care if you like me. I do not care about anything anymore. I just want to be alone.
That is what they did to me.
(not) Yours Sincerely
© W. Donovan
22 Diaries. Story eight
Hi lovely people.
Have you ever read a fairytale where a princess becomes a maid? No? That’s because there isn’t one.
Usually, it’s the other way round, right? Poor girl finding a prince, lost princess finding her family, princess finding her purpose, queen finding her freedom. All of these stories have happy endings, there’s no tales about girls who lose everything, never getting anything instead. Why? Because no one wants to read about unhappy endings.
I put on a dress and I pretend to be a lady. I talk like a lady. I walk like a lady. I smile like a lady. But all I want to do is scream and dance on the streets of my imagination.
Is that what society wants me to believe in?
They say that life writes best scenarios. I disagree. Because if that was true no one would write stories. Any stories.
Life doesn’t write anything. It just sits on your chair passing by, waiting for you to die. Life doesn’t care. If you stand still, you’re going to stay still.
Do you believe in fate? In an invisible force that takes you to the path where you belong. It doesn’t matter what decision you make, doesn’t matter where you go, doesn’t matter what people you meet… You’re always going to end up in the place where the universe assigned you to.
That makes a lot of sense for me right now. And knowing that is devastating and relieving at the same time. Why should I try if my trying doesn’t bring me the desired outcome? Why should I put all my energy in something that is not meant for me? I only caused myself pain and now everything hurts me inside.
Someone who was born in dirt will always end up in dirt. I cannot fool my destiny. I cannot fool myself.
Life doesn’t have a happy ending. No one truly cares about you, and in the end you die anyway.
© W. Donovan
22 Diaries. Story seven
Dear Reader. I must tell you, that nothing is for free in this world.
When you feel like something came easily to you, that should be a warning sign to you. For things that come easily are never worth it and, sooner or later, you’re going to pay for them. Except the price will be high. You’ll pay with your tears, with blood and flesh. They will leave you scarred for life.
How do I move on now, when all I feel is your warm embrace. When all I feel is your cheek on my cheek.
You broke me, drained the energy out of me, took away all my warmth. What do I have now, when I have nothing? When I don’t have you…
Perhaps, caring too much is my problem. Caring about things that aren’t mine… and will never be.
Just be an icicle. Exchange smiles. But stay indifferent. Like they all do. Hate everything and everyone around you, so that it’ll be easier to just leave. Is that the solution?
Perhaps, I shouldn’t have treated you like a friend. Perhaps, you shouldn’t have acted like my friend.
Tell me now, why shouldn’t I crawl back in the shell, not showing any signs of interest anymore.
I wish I could say I don’t care. I wish I could say I don’t… But I still want to be… I want you to be around.
But the only thing around me right now is the emptiness and the memory of your face leaning against mine.
The open wound in my stomach, dripping with rust on the fluffy surface of the conversations that never took place.
Remember, nothing is for free in this world.
22 Diaries. Story five
What is a home? Where is your home?
You meticulously build your life around things and people that you know well, hoping they will never going to change. Since there was too many unwanted changes in your life. Since you’ve come out from nowhere, you plan to head somewhere. To a place that actually matters.
Eventually, you feel like you belong somewhere, like you’re in the right place. Wanted and appreciated, you know you’re going to be safe. You cosy up with the comfort in your mind, the comfort that they created.
Little do you know whom you surround yourself with. Cold-hearted people with warm smiles and welcoming arms, pretending to be your friends. Always saying the words that you want to hear, but not doing a thing.
Suddenly, you find yourself grasping for a breath when a huge spider jumps on your face and you don’t have a chance to defend yourself. All the arguments that they listen to only selectively. Again, nothing matters anymore.
Abandoned. Always unwanted. Desperately trying to belong somewhere, you blindly meander around the wrong people who know how to use you. Who suck the energy out of you and then throw you in the landfill.
Where once the home was, now there’s a hole stuffed with shredded photos that you used to take. And you realize that the only human you can rely on is yourself. And the things that you can safely surround yourself with are some old furniture and a rabbit.
© W. Donovan
22 Diaries. Story four
and you showed me
and you told me
Born in sunshine
where everything is bright and warm.
Not born in darkness
left on its own in cold.
where I don’t belong
where I should head next
Perhaps the only thing I should want
is not to want anything.
the unreal views
mixed with dreams
like a herbal tea
mixed with poison
where does it take me
to another dimension
where I cannot remember anything
where I have to start all over
Rarely crossing paths with the light
I always shut my eyes.
Perhaps I’m wrong
and everyone around me is right.
not to grow any further
that’s what you’re telling me
to cherish every moment
You ungrateful bitch.
just stuck in limbo
the ideas in my head
should have been
just ideas in my head
Stick to the rules
follow the followers.
© W. Donovan
22 Diaries. Story three
I’ve lived mostly in my head lately. Don’t ask me where I’ve been. Don’t ask me how far away.
Have we talked? Have I imagined it. I never say what hurts me, but what hurts me the most is the relationship that we’ll never have. Because of me. Because you’re somebody else.
What I long for is the light.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been here for and how many creatures I’ve made up. Even one is one too many. How destructive for my sanity to dream of stars that never shine for me.
What I long for is flesh.
I don’t want to say you pushed me there. You probably didn’t. It’s just… the chemicals in my brain have been inconsistent. But I swear I saw it in your eyes, and now I’m trying not to want. Not to expect anything from hands that never touched my body.
I wish I could say it was something because it definitely was something in my head. Except things in my head are always easy, always vivid, always bright. Never real.
You were unreal in my head.
© W. Donovan
22 Diaries. Story two
Maybe we all should be robots with plastic parts in our brains.