| I pressed a fist to the glass of my window, the chill from outside seeping into the skin of my hand. Another cold day in this stupid house. I wanted out so badly. I closed my eyes and let the noises of where I wanted to be overcome me. The cars, the sirens, and oh god the people. I wanted the people so bad. It was becoming a sick and twisted obsession. One that I was having trouble getting rid of. I looked around me, of all the photographs and sketches of people. People running. People dancing. People touching. People fucking. People being people. I touched the photo of the couple I had. The one where they were on a bench together, defying all odds of the rules put up for public displays of affection for "particular"couples. The one where they're tongue fucking. The one where they're both men. People. Oh so lovely people. I giggled to myself and moved the photo onto my pillow, leaning against the wall as I picked up others that were resting on my bed. Children playing. Children swinging. Children laughing. Children jumping. Children enjoying their innocence. I like to believe that I am obsessed with people because they lead lives that I wish I had. At least the outside appearance of their lives is something I desperately want. All the smiles and beautifully affectionate touches. Why can't I have that? It is as if I was condemned since birth to belong to myself and only myself, to be a prisoner in my mind where it holds me down from ever being part of the good things. All I can feel are the bad things that are touching me. Everytime I look inside myself to see if maybe, just maybe I can find the good things, the bad quickly overcome and I want to die. So I take my camera. I take my worn out sketchbook of two weeks and a pencil. And I find people. I find my lovely people. I've been confronted about this "problem" I apparently have. By people themselves. By policemen with shiny buttons and worn expressions. By young mothers with crying children and anger in their superbly gorgeous eyes. I do not understand what they find so odd about the one thing that allows me happiness. They have their freezer burned TV dinners and their family game shows. Why can I not have this one thing? I know it is a little weird. Seeing some creepy person taking pictures on a bench, a curb, the bed of a truck. But there is no harm done. People seem to assume automatically that I use the photos that I take as some sick form of what? Masturbation? Plans for mass bombing? World destruction? People are so irritating. I am more fascinated with their outer and physical beauty. Not the ugly dark things that swim around inside them. As long as they are not talking to me, insulting me, or accusing me. I am on my merry way. I glared down at the photos. Damn you people. I swiped them off the bed, ignoring the flutter of thousands of people on my needed-to-be-vacuumed-badly-because-it's-harboring weird-mites carpet. Why do you ruin these things for me?! STUPID PEOPLE. I screamed and tore the photos off the wall, their frayed corners ripping through the tacks and nails. WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?! I took my old scissors and cut lines into photos where the scars of old lines were. I HATE YOU YOU HATE ME I HATE YOU YOUHATEMELEAVEMEALONEANDLETMEHAVETHISDAMMIT. I stopped, my little flurry quiet in the room. I heaved a breath and flopped back on the bed. I stared down at the mess I had made, shreds of people's face and eyes peering up at me from their lonely spot on the floor. I sighed and reached over for my tape, set to mend the things I had broken this time, as I had so many times before. My fingers grazed my camera strap, worn with gravel tears and dried crust of blood. I giggled. I love people. The End. |
| The Sweetest And Loneliest Obsession I Have By V |