Tears streaming down my face, I slowly raised my head. How could it have ended this way? All of my careful plans! Ruined.
In the blink of an eye. I surveyed the wreckage on my hands and knees, dusted with chunks of gravel and streaked with dirt. I watched him strut off, flaunting his victory. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen! The hero always wins! I slowly rose to my feet. I had been forgotten for now. Everything I had worked for was destroyed and all the monsters had to do was destroy me. But I had been defeated, and that was enough for them for now. A light shone in my eyes; the sun peaking through the clouds of haze. I would conquer them yet. I would restore everything to how it should be. A matter of perspective, that’s all, just one side or the other through their eyes. Savior, enemy. All focused on the perspective, the self, the one whose eyes are being seen through. All focused on the self. A woman rose from the gravel. She had lain until they left, defeated but not destroyed. In the eyes, the self-focused eyes, was enemies and destruction of good. The eyes. All showing the focus, the focus, the self. Everyone focuses on the self, the eyes they see through. All, all. Self-focused, selfish. But who, who, how can everyone be focused on the self at the same time? If all is self, there is not enough room for all in the world. Self is all there is, no other, none but they who please the self. And then only for as long as they please the self, then gone and forgotten, all but a scar. Scars and tears and self-focus. That is what comes of it. Who, who, how? She stumbled home, tears down the cheeks, tears from the eyes that see from the self. She started over, building up again as seen fit by the eyes that see from the self. Who, who? He smiled grimly as he recounted it. What he had seen from the eyes that see from the self. The woman was a villain, He spoke as he saw from the eyes that see from the self. She destroyed the city, No mention of the help that he gave to the destruction. Takes two to fight. Two sets of eyes that see from two selves that disagree. Clashing. Destruction from the eyes that see from the self.
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It stepped forward, timidly.
Facing it, the other laughed, looming over the first. A glint of defiance filled its features before the other struck. Opening wide, the blades sliced through the fragile fibers that held it together and it lay, slain, defeated. A single piece of paper became two, then three, then a flurry like snow, too many to count. The other’s rage was complete. Gladiator champion. The audience cowered in fear as the dual blades, fixed in place by the great red handles, raked their gaze across them. Who was to be the next competitor? The scissors grinned, already tasting the cut paper between their teeth. For who could cut down the scissors? Shoot. The only word to describe it. The way it came to the clearing in the palm of the universe. It shot. Through the air and onto the scissors, crushing them, it shot. And then again. Up and down, and no way for the blades to retaliate, for its skin was hard and uncuttable. The scissors scraped against it in vain, but it was not long before they lay bent and broken like so many of their victims had before. The rock rose above, victorious, and the crowds cheered. Until it looked upon them with its cold, hard eyes, inviting the next competitor with a grim eagerness. The rock, unsmashable, uncuttable. Flurries. Flurries in the wind. Dancing, bent to the wind’s will, the flurries of broken paper flew. Suddenly whole again. Mended and prepared, once more, to fight. The rock rose up against it, but the paper laughed its merry, high laugh, and knew that there were no blades to cut it now. Up it flew, and it settled over the rock like a blanket of white, pristine cotton. The rock stumbled, but it could not see; it smashed against the ground, trying to rid itself of the cause of its claustrophobia. But the paper was resilient, and the rock was not. It crumbled with each smash, until it lay unmoving and scattered, like bits of paper in the wind. For power, alas, does not last. because somehow i was like "rock, paper, scissors. philosophical gladiator wars" I stretched my hand up to the sky. The grass was cold and wet against my back, but the night was warm. A blanket of dark blue stretched in an endless expanse above me. So many stars.
A light flickered in the distance, a tiny pinprick in the corner of my eye. Far, far away. I am alone. The light is far, far away. Or so I tried to convince myself. I closed my eyes. If I did not see light, I could pretend there was no light. The idea swept through my brain and I squeezed my eyes tighter. All is black. Stars don’t shine. Lights don’t shine. All is black, black, black. Black. Alone. I am alone. That was all I ever wanted. Alone. I felt it within me. Alone. Lone. Lonely. All I ever wanted. All I never wanted. Lonely. Alone. I am alone. Disclaimer: this came from the abstract side of me that imagines emotions that I don't actually have. Useful for acting, but can be a bit... strange at times. Imagination's Playground was aptly named, I can assure you. I surveyed the room. Everyone was hanging out in their various cliques. Typical. Outcasts on the edges. I remember being one of them.
Another party my sister dragged me to. And promptly abandoned me in the middle of. I hunched and searched for a solid wall amid the cloud of people. Something to hold onto. Something that wouldn’t judge me. What was it with judgement, anyway? You can never see it. They never make it obvious. And yet it is. The quirk of an eyebrow- that’s all it takes. All it takes to tell you you’re out of it. Once you know that, a thousand of your flaws will flood your mind. Overtake you. Get me out of here. I shook away the memory. Those were the old days. I could never fit in. But if you don’t fit in, what do you do? You stand out. Use it. I watched him strut into the room. The instant he entered, the room was his. I don’t know how he did it, but every eye was rooted on him. He wasn’t wearing anything that could have remotely considered being in a magazine, but he wore it like it was better than any flimsy, waxy paper could portray. He owned that room. You stand out? Use it. “Heey, who’s feeling it tonight?” I rumble. Power. You gotta communicate it, or they’ll all quirk their funny little eyebrows. Power. Use it. Cheers from everyone. I’ve got the power. I own the room. Stand out? Use it. I watched him strut into the room like he owned it. Said something cheesy, everyone cheered. I rolled my eyes. Who does this guy think he is? I slink away from the wall I had been hunching on. The room stank of cheap perfume and barely concealed sweat. I could almost taste the fakeness. Fake. Everything was fake. I edged around the room filled with empty masks. Who knows who these people could have been if they didn’t have to put up a front? I closed my eyes for a moment, bowing my head as I slipped through the door. Artists, architects, who knows? But they’re out of childhood too early. A childhood of television and terrible role models. Wasted. I scrunched my eyes tighter and leaned against another wall. Society put us here. We grow up to be society. Repeat. How do you change that? Wasted. Not if I can help it. |
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