cozzybob (cozzybob) wrote in first_thoughts,
cozzybob
cozzybob
first_thoughts

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The Mirror

The Mirror

Warning: minor swearing, experimental, mention of cutting. possible controversy.

Note: My inspiration was "the man in the mirror" philosophy, but this is from the view of today's youth in society.

Summary: Look at yourself.


Look at yourself.

You're desperate for attention, and I understand why. No one loves you, no one even likes you, and it seems that day by day by day, the only thing that really matters in your dark and stormy mind is that you're always alone, and every friendship you've ever earned was made to be broken.

The thing of it is, no one likes you because you're desperate for attention, and you're desperate for attention, because no one likes you. I guess that's the real conundrum of being young, as they say. Except, you don't feel young. Sometimes you wonder if you ever were, right?

So you whine, bitch, and moan. You tell or imply to everyone who will listen that you have a long, complicated, terrible history with the world, and that you hate yourself, you hate everyone, and you can't stand the thought of being alone all the time. Then again, sometimes you don't say a word, but everyone already knows, because they all feel the same way. And I guess I understand that too, even if I loathe you for it. Because sometimes, you just have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and move on, right? That's what the others say, what they whisper behind your back, and I can't help but believe them at times. Because sometimes, you just have to accept that the world is dark, and bleak, and horrible, and mad, and rotten, and so lonely that you could just die, because no one cares, no one will ever care, and maybe you're better off throwing in the towel.

Look at yourself.

You just want someone to stand up for you, and I can understand that too. Everyone does, after all, because everyone has their demons and everyone needs a friend to help them shove those ugly, writhing memories back into the closet where they belong. But not everyone has a friend, or even just one tiny crumb of dignity--there are starving children in Africa, as your grandmother used to say, and sometimes being an American is like being the fat kid on the block who's got everything and anything he could ever want (except self-respect, true friendship, and a dependable insurance policy). No one understands, no one ever understands... you hate yourself, you can't bare to look at yourself, and you wish you had all the money that surgery could buy so you could change yourself, be that one beautiful person you see on the television, even though she starves herself and loads her face with strange chemicals to be that way. Even though you know, in the back of your mind, that she feels ugly just as you do, and she really kind of is, because it's all a matter of perspective in the end.

Look at yourself.

You want the beautiful life, but you can't take the pain, even though the pain itself is beautiful, and you worship it on violent nights with a razor between your fingertips and Trent (that stereotypical cliche'd bastard), on your lips. The most beautiful people in the world are often the most depressing, after all, or so you used to say when you were admiring those cute emo boys leaning against the grungy brick wall outside your high school on the night of every big dance your parents paid the tickets for you to go to, just so that you could stand on the sidelines and sneer at every "popular" person in proximity, with their friends, and their charisma, their wealthy parents... oh how you seethe in jealousy. You would stand at the wall next to the other emo children while they went on about broken hearts, staring wistfully at the dancers and their friends, all those laughing faces... it never occurred to you to wonder why you and the other "emo" people ever bothered going if they'd only stand there and mock those out to have a good time. Why should anyone have a good time? Misery loves company, and the company only ever talks about themselves.

Usually, you stick to hiding behind your bangs, your capital letters, your fumbling political statements and your curse words as you flip the world the bird and tell anyone who will listen what you like, what you hate, and why they should care. Then you tell them you don't care, which is the oxymoron of every statement you make, because someone who tells other people that they don't care over and over into monotonous repetition obviously cares just a little too much, and you know this, even if you continue to act the part in mindless self-destruction.

No one can blame you for that, but if someone ever stopped to think about it, maybe they'd wonder... why would anyone want to? Why would anyone care enough about your problems to "blame" you for some bizarre unnamed crime against humanity? It's a waste of their time, and a waste of yours. What is so horrible about being who you are?

But it isn't who you are, and some part of you knows that. It's who you're trying to be. You're trying to be everything that everyone expects you to be, and you don't even realize it. The pain is so great now that you can't even think of anything but yourself, and that isn't selfish, it's just another survival tactic. You just want someone to care about you. You just want someone to care. You just want someone, which brings a whole new can of worms, because someone always translates into complicated, which translates into words like shattered, and crushed, and I don't love you anymore, maybe even I never loved you at all.

So the lesson to be learned is that you don't need anyone but yourself. You empower yourself, you take that pain you've agonized over for so long and solidify into the drive you need to make a better life for yourself. Now you know what you have to do, and what to do to get there--but the trouble is, your support system is shot, and no one really believes in you anymore. Everyone you'd thought would stand by you is suddenly gone--you're alone. You're terrified. You're growing up, the world is changing, and you're in stasis looking at everything you could have accomplished, everything you wished you'd done better.

The cycle reverts. Suddenly, all you want is a little bit of attention, and no one will give it to you, because you're desperate. I understand that, and I think it's sad.

Look at me.

I think it's sad, and I want to help you. I know you, I feel you, I understand what you're going through--I do, and I love you, even if sometimes I say hurtful things I can never take back, even if sometimes I don't really understand you at all. But then, no one is supposed to, because you're you, and there's nothing wrong with being unique. There's nothing wrong with you. There's nothing wrong.

Look at me.

Won't you let me in? Won't you accept me for who I am? Won't you defend me, love me, and embrace me? Won't you?

Look at me.

I'm standing right here.
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