Faith in Worldy Affairs

January 17, 2010
By sylvies GOLD, New York, New York
sylvies GOLD, New York, New York
19 articles 0 photos 0 comments

You lose your faith in the world all the time.
In fact, you woke up this morning and you could barely get out of bed, the weight of the whole world was so heavy. You are so tired, you are so scared, you just want to sleep or die. But then your mom strolls in and places a cup of tea on the desk next to your bed, and you think, Caffeine. Reality steps in and you shake off your s*** and get up, because you know you have to deal, or at least try to learn to.
You refuse to be a pile of snotty failure that wraps itself up in your sheets and pillows and never leaves. You want to live, even if you live sh**ily.
So you get up and put on your clothes, look in the mirror and think, ew, fat. You drink your tea and do your makeup and leave your messy house. You go to school. You sing in chorus and deal with the teacher that loves to hate you. You bomb a billion math tests and suck at handing in your science homework. You say hello to friends and try to make everything okay. You feel closed off, disconnected, on the outside looking in.
Life goes on. The seasons pass. I suppose that even when you’re living a life you hate, it is important to note that time shows no mercy. It is always moving us forward.
So now it is summer, and you are, so suddenly, without any warning whatsoever - discovering yourself.
You move the furniture around in your room on an impulse, and suddenly, you see you in this space. You smoke a couple cigarettes and drink scotch with your uncle. You take some trips with friends, go swimming, get the lightest of tans. You sell lemonade and finally just say f*** it, and unleash yourself. A friend cuts off your stringy hair, and you are alive.
Summer comes to a close and here is September. Here is Autumn and boys and friends. You talk and smile. You are happy. You get a solo and you bring down the house. You write and feed your soul with the words. Your hair grows out again, you lose weight. You dress yourself in heels and jeans and low cut shirts and you flirt. You are so excited and young and breakable, so beautiful to your own eyes. Really, they are the only ones that matter.
You feel ready to fly, so strong. But then, there is still a part of you that longs for drama. You decide to starve yourself.
f*** you know it sounds crazy. Honestly, that’s exactly what you want it to sound like. You want to go crazy. You want to get high. You want to be so close to God you could touch his beard.
So you do this, and then decide after a while that being a skinny rack of bones can take the backburner while you DEAL with your LIFE. In the weeks of calorie counting, you’ve picked up a few odd eating habits. You eat carrots with mustard, apples and yogurt and granola, healthy things you hated before, but now can’t live without. You don’t each lunch. Well, actually, you sugar load during lunch. Then you go home and have no less than five cups of caffeinated tea, a smoke when you can sneak it, some booze perhaps. You are jittery and sleepless well past your bedtime. You keep the radio on, and you type tirelessly by the light of your computer.
You write weird things; stories about children just barely grown up, drinking and driving and thinking. These stories have no plot. They are simply snapshots, broken smiles and melancholy and s**, sometimes. You buzz in a state of hyper active activity, going too fast to slow down and recognize how sad this is.
Then you start craving something. At first, you don’t know what it is. It’s just a nameless hunger; you have a lot of those, so you don’t think much of it. It grows. You become more vapid and jumpy. You figure it out after a while; you are dying to get high.
You want an extreme, more extreme, dying, living, breathing and stopping something ANYTHING to get you above everything, to lift you to a faster, better, stranger plane of existence. You feel mad as a hatter, and you only want to go deeper. You only want to get worse. You disregard the signals. You’re slipping. You don’t give a f***. You’re dying for it, literally dying for it. They tell you no, no, please, no, rethink it please and thank you. Pity, those poor darlings, they’ll never understand. Those f***ing s***s, they don’t deserve to understand. It doesn’t matter anyway. You only want to try. Just a little, just a bit, I’ll be back soon, you promise. Sink to a place so dank and dark you think you’re back in the womb, and you know that everything is okay, because you know exactly what you want. You only want to feel less tired. You only want to feel better, stronger; you only want to go insane.

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