Friday, 26 April 2013

The Boy.

It took us a while to get to this point. We traveled long, we traveled far. We made sacrifices. We lost more than we gained. Finally, we were there. We made it. Our travels had been worth it. For we were there. And the old man, was going to give us something that we needed, to make our lives better. We looked at each other with smiles on our face and waited for him to say something.

We were in his cabin, his cabin was confusing, because it wasn't nice at all. In any way, not even in an old wise way. There was a shocking amount of underwear hanging around. There were plates with molding food on them, and a lot of flies and other bugs, of types I had never seen, hanging around his place. He was dressed in a pink housecoat. Or at least, the patches that weren't brown from stains whose origins I choose not to speculate, were pink.

He took out a box. The box was filled with cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a match. And he sat in a old brown chair. We could see his junk hanging out. It was hard not to look. Then finally, after some scratching and adjusting. He spoke:

"I have a constant vision in my mind that haunts me. There is a boy, and he has long sandy hair, and a t-shirt and shorts on. He's caught in some type of storm. And, in truth, I do not know what kind of storm. The backround of my vision is an unnatural white. He's clutching his breast to a pole. He's miserable and alone. His hair looks fantastic in the wind. And that's all I see. Whenever I close my eyes, or if I just get lost in thought, this image comes to me over and over. I don't know what it means."

Then he politely asked us to leave.

We assumed that we wasted our time. That there was no wisdom there. We thought maybe we got the wrong cabin. He had just wasted our time.

Years later, my travel companion, whom I had not spoken to in as much time. Called me.



"I was just wondering."


"When you close your eyes now. Or get lost in thought"

"I see the boy."



There was so much hate in the air, it was hard to breathe.

Someone was manipulating someone, someone was accusing someone of something. Someone was purposefully doing it, while being completely unaware at how horrible the behavior was. Someone was so overcome with hate, anger and fear. That they didn't know that everyone around them was trying to love them. So she deemed the love that they gave her, inadequate and empty.

She thought that they were doing to her, what she was doing to them. When people are blinded by their hate, anger and fear, they only see themselves. When someone was kind, she waited for the catch, when none presented itself. She made one. She would spend days of manipulation in order to create one. She would make something out of nothing. Or she would take love, and talk about how selfish it is. Because, love makes you feel good.

So we're all hypocrites.

This writer wishes this was fiction. This writer wishes that this was just one person.

It's not just one person.

He hated himself so much, that there was no comprehension that he had value. That his value was not as quantifiable as others. That his value was his smile, his laughter and his joy. He didn't know his value because he never learned to express those things. Hate can lead to something that feels like power.

Hate is not a power, it's a force. It's a force that lives in all of us, that leads to an action of negative value. All actions of negative are pointless, because they go backwards instead of forward. They move against the goodness of the world. The actions of hate lead to more hate, hate has no point. So the actions are pointless.

That's why they hate, they are afraid of having a point. So they make sure that they don't. They hate. Hate keeps life, and lives pointless.

That's as far as this writer can understand it. That's as far as this writer is willing to try.

It's impossible to write too much about hate it seems. Since it's pointless, no matter what, whenever one tries to write about it. There is a realization that you're writing about nothing. There is no point. It's just hate. It's a waste of time.