Today I felt terribly tragic. I took an hour long walk with my dog after school to sort my brain. I never actually did sort it, I kind of just cleared it to actually look at the world for a while and to run without feeling the effects of a world gone so wrong.
Today a boy fell through a glass door at the bottom of a staircase. I was in philosophy. We heard a loud crash and it was followed by the doors being opened and several curious students running outside to see what had happened. The result was that a boy was laying on the floor with glass all around him and his face apparantly split open. I didn't see it, this is all just by word of mouth and seeing the door without glass on my way out to the buses. They said that there were people helping him. All I saw was a bunch of people, and a boy getting up to his knees and glass...
The question is, what happened to this boy? Did he trip and fall down the stairs and go vaulting into and through the glass door? But what about the wooden handle in the middle? The glass was broken everywhere, but how could he have gone through both sides? Was he a victim of something else? Was he sick and did he faint? I felt like the world was crashing because I couldn't know the reasons.
On the bus I heard a boy say that he had to have his stomach pumped after doing some drugs. That they had kept asking him what his name was and where he lived. He told the other boys the dose he had taken. Despite being vulgar and disgusting to his friends, this boy seemed like the subject of great writing. He sat with his back to the glass window of the bus, and his eyes seemed inverted, like he was thinking in some other universe. I hated that he wasn't the boy I had created in my head for him to be. He was just another jouvenile who did drugs and made disgusting jokes with his friends.
On the bus I sat beside a tormented boy. They laughed at him, called him names and laid down jokes at his expense to look cool infront of each other. I cried later for this boy, frustrated, that nothing I would've said could've made them stop, that I should've anyway, and that I knew that this boy was in some way my brother. I hated that. And I hated myself. And I hated the world.
In a way, all of these boys were the same. The boy who had fallen through the glass door, the boy who had his stomach pumped, and the boy who had no reason left to live. How can I explain how terrible this all is? How awful the people in the world are?
Why does no one philosophize anymore? Why is intelligence such a scarce thing? I could walk for hours and hours to the ends of the earth and never sort these things in my brain so that they make sense, but I want to, at least, write them down so I can remember precisely this, and that terrible, tragic feeling I have right now.
Today a boy fell through a glass door at the bottom of a staircase. I was in philosophy. We heard a loud crash and it was followed by the doors being opened and several curious students running outside to see what had happened. The result was that a boy was laying on the floor with glass all around him and his face apparantly split open. I didn't see it, this is all just by word of mouth and seeing the door without glass on my way out to the buses. They said that there were people helping him. All I saw was a bunch of people, and a boy getting up to his knees and glass...
The question is, what happened to this boy? Did he trip and fall down the stairs and go vaulting into and through the glass door? But what about the wooden handle in the middle? The glass was broken everywhere, but how could he have gone through both sides? Was he a victim of something else? Was he sick and did he faint? I felt like the world was crashing because I couldn't know the reasons.
On the bus I heard a boy say that he had to have his stomach pumped after doing some drugs. That they had kept asking him what his name was and where he lived. He told the other boys the dose he had taken. Despite being vulgar and disgusting to his friends, this boy seemed like the subject of great writing. He sat with his back to the glass window of the bus, and his eyes seemed inverted, like he was thinking in some other universe. I hated that he wasn't the boy I had created in my head for him to be. He was just another jouvenile who did drugs and made disgusting jokes with his friends.
On the bus I sat beside a tormented boy. They laughed at him, called him names and laid down jokes at his expense to look cool infront of each other. I cried later for this boy, frustrated, that nothing I would've said could've made them stop, that I should've anyway, and that I knew that this boy was in some way my brother. I hated that. And I hated myself. And I hated the world.
In a way, all of these boys were the same. The boy who had fallen through the glass door, the boy who had his stomach pumped, and the boy who had no reason left to live. How can I explain how terrible this all is? How awful the people in the world are?
Why does no one philosophize anymore? Why is intelligence such a scarce thing? I could walk for hours and hours to the ends of the earth and never sort these things in my brain so that they make sense, but I want to, at least, write them down so I can remember precisely this, and that terrible, tragic feeling I have right now.
posted by Stephanie at
6:10 PM
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