I’m Angry

A few lyrics from an old song, by Styx.

“You see the world through your cynical eyes
You’re a troubled young man I can tell
You’ve got it all in the palm of your hand
But your hand’s wet with sweat and your head needs a rest

And you’re fooling yourself if you don’t believe it
You’re kidding yourself if you don’t believe it
How can you be such an angry young man
When your future looks quite bright to me
How can there be such a sinister plan
That could hide such a lamb, such a caring young man”

Yes, I have cynical eyes. They’re earned. Everywhere I look I see people that have stopped. People that are the walking dead. Zombies. And I’m angry about that. Fire-breathing angry. It’s taken four years of therapy for this to come out enough I can even write a simple note like this about it. And all I can really do right now is provide hints as to why I’m so angry.

I told my doctor today, “Math is hard, you know.”

Yeah. He said he knew.

“But it’s not impossible.”

He nodded.

“So why the fuck do people whine about it? Because it’s hard? Because they actually have to learn something? To push their brain cells?”

He mentioned  how panic paralyzes some of them at even the thought of doing math problems.

There are times I want to scream. Times I want to bitch slap people upside the head, and scream at them, “It’s NOT easy! Neither is life!”

Yeah. I’m angry.

Math’s just part of it. Just a scratch on the surface. I see posters on Facebook and they sometimes drive me nuts. I have to take a long walk, or go wander around a wildlife preserve, or through the botanical garden until I can regain control. Until the urge to scream fades.

I have to ask questions now. Blunt and brutal questions.

What do you do for a living? Is that natural? Were you born able to do that? Or did you have to learn stuff to do that? What’s wrong with learning stuff anyway? Does it mean you have to think? Does it make your little head hurt? Does it cause your eyes to burn? What?

Aren’t you the person that can hop on an exercise bike, and keep going and going and going for a couple of hours? And that’s tough, ain’t it? It’s hard to do that. When you started, you fuckin’ died after 10 minutes. Remember? After 10 minutes you were like, “Oh, God. I’m never gonna make that one mile mark! Ever!”

It took work, time and effort! You had to build up to it. You had to earn the ability. And you teach that to other newbies around you. “Don’t hurt yourself. Go slow at first. Ten to twenty minutes. Slow down if you have to. Don’t worry, with time you’ll get better.”

‘Cept that don’t fucking apply to Math. Or history. Or science. Or learning how to use your damn iPhone or Galaxy phone. Read the fuckin’ manual? Are you fuckin’ serious? I have to fucking read all God damn day long at work! I’m not reading shit for nobody! Just make the damn thing work like I want!

Yeah. I’m angry.

Here’s a little choice I made, all on my own, independently from everyone, when I was in 7th grade, in Annapolis, Maryland. I made the choice in my 7th grade history class, after tanking on the first test of the grading period. Yeah. I tanked on a history test. And upon seeing that grade, I got angry. I got mad. I got determined. I was NOT letting that happen again. Ever.

I got near perfect scores on everything in that history class after that. And it wasn’t easy. It took work. It took time and a lot of work. No one gave me the grades I got in that class. I didn’t earn them by being a genius, or by being smart. I earned them by working. By putting in the time and the effort required to learn what I had to learn to get the grades I wanted.

That’s what I did in school from that day forward.

That’s what I do now, at work.

That’s what I do now, in my writing. I work on it. I push myself. I don’t accept, “good enough.” I know I can get better. And I find no reason, and no excuse, to do otherwise.

When I see someone say, “I don’t know how to back up the contact list on my phone,” I want to grab their phone, and bash it over their stupid head. Because that’s what they are. Stupid. Too stupid to read the instructions, and find out how. “But I paid for it, and you guys better take care of my problem for me, so I’ll become the perfection idiot!”

Yeah. I’m angry. And I’m barely in control of that anger. It will be in the 90s, and maybe near 100 degrees tomorrow morning at 0830 hours. But I’ll be going on a 5.4 mile walk. I may lose 4 pounds of body fluid on that walk. But I’ll take that walk anyway.

So I can put up with the stupidity the world around me has embraced. And not want to scream. And not want to throw things. And not want to bitch slap people who so desperately deserve it.

I’m not even sad about it any more. It used to make me sad that people were the walking dead, and didn’t know it, and didn’t believe it. Now, I’m not sad. I’m disgusted. I’m angry. Want to be dead by 30, then stop learning. Stop reading. Stop asking questions. Start saying, “I can’t figure out how to use the friggin’ thing!” Start saying, “They changed Windows! Why! Why! Why! I’m gonna shoot someone!” Start saying, “The pastor said Harry Potter is evil, and we shouldn’t read it.”

“Harry Potter is evil, and we shouldn’t read it.”
“Why?”
“The pastor said so, this past Sunday morning at church.”
“Why did the pastor say that?”
“He said [insert name] said it was evil.”
“How does [same name] know it’s evil?”

And so it goes, until you realize no one in the entire chain of names has ever read a single word of any of the books. And you realize you’re talking to a person that says, “I don’t want to think! Tell me how to behave! Tell me how to live! Tell me what to do! Take all my responsibilities from me!”

There are so many stories I will be sharing about this. So many things I’ll write about why I’m angry.

But I’m angry enough I can’t write anymore tonight.

WAKE UP IDIOTS!

I don’t know why I bother. You obviously don’t want to wake up. You obviously don’t care. And nothing I can ever say, or do, will ever matter.

And you’ll be dead inside at 30.

And I’m going to laugh at you when you are.

Teach Me, Lord

Dear Lord in Heaven up above.
Teach me to be blind.
Teach me not to see the misery,
The suffering,
The pain,
In the souls around me.

I want to be happy, Lord.
Not sad.
I want to smile.
And laugh.
Not frown,
And cry.

I don’t want to know
What’s wrong with the world.
Or the people in it.
I don’t want to know
About those who are sick.
And dieing.
I find knowing that disturbs me.
Upsets me.
Makes me cry.

I want to be happy, Lord.
Not sad.
I want to smile.
And laugh.
Not frown,
And cry.

Teach me, Lord,
To walk away
From the people of this world
Who know things are not OK.
They ask questions,
And say things,
That make me think about
Things I rather not.

I don’t care about gun control.
The poor.
The haves, and the have-nots.
So what if there are children
Here in town,
That have no food to eat tonight?

If I think of things like that.
I’ll be sad.
I’ll frown.
And cry.

Teach me, Lord,
To be oblivious to everything
That could bring me down.

So it is, Lord in heaven, up above,
I ask again tonight,
Turn my heart to stone.
And blind my eyes.
So I’ll believe
Everything’s alright.

#VisDare 22 : Flight Of Fancy

That night as Alice and I sat on the sofa, she asked me once again, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

I let my fingers gently trace the line of her cheek, feeling her soft, brunette hair. “You are the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.” Alice smiled, and briefly kissed me.

She pulled her feet up on the sofa, and put her head in my lap. We slept on the sofa that night. And I had a dream. I saw Alice, dressed in black, on her knees, her arms wrapped around herself. Ghostly figures flitted in and out of existence above her. And I knew she was sad. Her heart in pain, her soul in tears.

I’d never felt anything like that. Never had a dream like that. We both woke before the dawn. I held her close. “So many memories,” she whispered. “So many lost.”

146 Words
@LurchMunster


This is the 18th piece in a continuing story I’m working through for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.

Chapter 29 Of JuNoWriMo 2012

Chapter 29 – I Don’t Have A Name

Scream pushed himself. As hard as he could. He flew, streaking across the sky. He spoke to Mystica as he flew. “Mystica. It’s time. I have heard another child. I have to help her. Please take care of Musica for me.”

And he flew. He had to get there in time. He had to. His wings grabbed oceans of air, and hurled them behind him. A black stream in the black sky. He’d heard a little girl. Maybe only 2 years old. Crying. “Mommy? Daddy?” He’d heard her, “Where am I?”

He’d spoken with her. “Hi, little one. Are you lost?”

“I’m lost.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Who are you?”

“Me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“No.”

“What does everyone call you?”

“Bad girl.”

“Why do they call you that?”

“I don’t know.”

Scream pushed himself. He had to get there. He had to. “I’ll find you. OK? I’ll find you.” He wished he could fly even faster. Faster than Merlin. So he could get there. So he could find the little girl. So he could help her. Take care of her.

“I’ll bring her to the lake.” He told Mystica. “I’ll bring her to the lake, so she will be safe.”

But first, he had to get to her. Find her.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Scream knew where she was. He could tell tat as he spoke with her. The Black Mountains. He knew she was in all kinds of danger. She could fall off a cliff. Trip and fall down the side of a mountain. Cause a rock slide. Get caught in a mountain scream, and drown. So many things that could go wrong. So many things that could hurt her.

He had to get there. He had to.

He kept speaking with the girl as he streaked along. “Are you OK?”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, little one. I know. I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m scared.”

“Would you like to know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Scream.”

“Scream?”

“Yes. Scream. I’m a dragon.”

The girl sounded nervous, scared, and excited all at t same time. “A dragon? I’ve never seen a dragon before. What’s a dragon?”

She was so young. “How old are you?”

“2.”

“2? That’s a good number.”

“I just turned 2.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I missed your birthday.”

“That’s OK, Mr. Scream. No body celebrated my birthday this year.”

“Do you have a mommy and a daddy.”

“No. I don’t.”

Scream tore through the sky. He’d never flown so fast. As the sun came up, he screamed. A scream that carried for miles in all directions. A warning scream. A warning that a dragon was coming. To protect something. And would do whatever he had to.

The sun had been up for an hour.

“I’m tired, Mr. Scream.”

“Why don’t you lie down. And take a little nap.”

“I’m scared.”

An eagle spoke. “I found her.”

“Where is she?”

The eagle explained. Then said, “I’ll circle here. Above her. So you can find her.”

“Will you protect her?”

“As much as I can.”

“Thank you. Little one. An eagle friend of mine is flying nearby. He will watch over you as you sleep. He’ll protect you. You can take a nap. And I’ll get there soon.”

“I’m scared, Mr. Scream. And I’m hungry. So hungry.”

A bear spoke with Scream. “I have found some berries. I’ll take them to the child. So she can eat something.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s so very wrong, what those people have done to her.”

“They abandoned her, didn’t they?”

“Yes. They did.”

Scream tore the sky in half, as he raced along.  Racing across the Grey Hills. Into the Black Mountains. Getting higher, and higher. Until he saw the eagle, circling. He slowed. And looked carefully for the child on the ground.

There. On the ground. Asleep. Next to a bear. It was the little girl.

Scream landed. The bear nodded at him. “She’s resting.”

“Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I couldn’t let her go hungry. What they did to her is just so wrong.”

“I know.”

“What will you do with her, Sir Scream?”

“I will take her to the White Witch. The White Witch will know what to do.”

The bear got up, “That she will. That she will.” Then he headed off into the bushes, and the grasses, and the weeds.

Scream watched over the child. She was the cutest little child he’d ever seen. With curly, flowing silver and gray hair. When she finally woke up, Scream got to she her silvery gray eyes. And the nubs of wings on her back. Her wings had just started to come in.

“Are you Mr. Scream?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Where did Mr. Bear go?”

“He watched over you until I got here. Then he went home to his family.”

Scream looked at the little girl. “I know where two other girls are. And their mommy. I’m sure they would love to see you.”

“But I’m a bad girl. Remember? Who would want to see me.”

“I did. Remember. I came to find you.”

“Oh.” The little girl looked confused.

“You don’t have a name?”

“No.”

“Well.” Scream fought to control his anger. He wanted to go find the village  Totally destroy it. They’d abandoned this little girl. Only 2 years old! They’d even refused to give her a name. Calling her “bad girl.” And her parents had even declared they weren’t her parents. They’d disowned her.

He shook his head. He knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything. It would only cause the fairies to continue to fight the dragons. And to fight change. And that’s not what he wanted. He wanted the fairies to change. To learn to accept their special children. Like the one he was talking with.

Scream placed a hand on the ground. “If you climb into my hand, I can take you to see Mystica, and her children.”

“Do the children have names?”

“Yes, little one. They are Musica and Sunshine.”

“Can I have a name too?”

“Yes, little one. I’m sure Mystica will give you a name.”

The little girl climbed up into Scream’s hand. It wasn’t easy for her. She was little. She was tired. She was hungry. She struggled. She lost her footing several times. But she always held on, and found a way to regain her footing, and start climbing again. Scream held perfectly still. And that helped the little girl a lot.

When the little girl had made it into Scream’s hand, he gently picked her up. “I promise not to drop you. And to keep you safe. OK?”

“Yes, Mr. Scream.”

Then he flexed his wings, and took to the sky. Scream flew at a much slower pace. He wanted to be careful with the child. To make sure she was safe. He spoke to Mystica along the way. “I’ve found the child. I’m bringing her to the lake. She’s alive. And she seems to be OK. I’ll get her there as quickly as I can.”

He flew through the mountains. Toward the north, and the forest. He came upon a river that flowed toward the forest. So he followed it. Knowing it would flow into the lake. It took several hours, and Scream watched the little child very carefully. The little girl fell asleep.

Scream listened to hear heart beat. He listened to her breathe. He stayed very careful. For he knew of her gift. So he didn’t believe everything he saw while she was asleep. He simply followed the river.

The little girl woke up. And she cried.

“Why do you cry, little one?”

“I’m sad.”

“Oh.” Scream wished they were already at the lake. So Mystica could help with the girl. He considered going faster. But he didn’t want to scare the little girl. And he didn’t want to risk hurting her.

“We’re almost there, little one. It will take a little while longer.”

The little girl sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “I cry all the time. But I’m OK.”

“Are you looking forward to meeting the other girls?” he asked.

“Yes. But I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared, little one?”

“‘Cause people don’t like me.”

Scream heard the words she’d said earlier. “They call me bad girl.” He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. It would have scared the little girl. And he couldn’t do that. So, he did not scream. He remained quiet, knowing it was less than one hour to the lake.

He hoped Mystica would know what to do.

Scars

He stood there,
On Christmas Eve.
Looking into the mirror.

He was quite sad.
Depressed, actually.
By what he saw there.
By the images that he could see
That no one else could see.
Images of memories.
Paintings of events
That he remembered so very well.

All of them ending
With yet another scar
Left forever
On his heart.

It saddened him greatly
Every time he looked
And saw those scars.

He knew
He’d never put
A single one
Of those scars
On his heart.
They’d been put there
By people he had known.
People he had called his friends.

What saddened him the most
Was how the people that he’d known
That had scared his heart
The way they had
Had never understood
The hurt that they’d caused him.
And his understanding
That none of them
Every would.

After all.
He was the only one
That had been injured
In the way he’d been.
No one else
He’d ever known
Had been hurt
Like he’d been.

Since no one had been hurt
Except for him,
It had to be something
That he’d done,
Didn’t it.
That’s how he was treated
By the people that he knew.

As if everything
Was always his fault.

As he stood there,
Looking in the mirror
At the scars upon his heart,
He asked God once again
To take care of his friends.

“You found a way
To touch my heart.
To awaken me.
You never once
Gave up on me.
Please, God.
Don’t give up on them.”

The truth was
The only real mistake
He’d ever really made
Was being different.

He still had trouble accepting
The way people treated him
Because he did not behave
Exactly like them.

He had even more trouble
Trying to understand
How people could live
In such awful pain.
And not realize it.

How could people deny
So many things they felt?
So many things they believed?
So many differences
Among themselves?

How could they go on
Day after day,
Afraid to say things
That were different?
Things that might disturb,
Or disrupt,
Or upset,
Someone that they knew?

It was this denial
Of individuality
That had wounded his heart
So very many times.
And left the scars upon it.

And yet,
All of the people
That he knew
Proclaimed how different
Each of them were.

They were looking
At the window dressings
Of their lives.
If people were like cars,
They’d all be the same model.
But with different paint.
And different trim.
Some with radios.
Some not.
Some with performance tires.
Some with plain old radials.
Some with the cheapest tires
That they could find.

Some would have paint stripes on.
Some would be plain colors.
Some would have that pain
With all the plastic bits in it
So that the color changed
When the light hit it.
And you couldn’t really tell
What color that it was.
Some would have fabric interiors.
Some would have plain vinyl.
Some would have gone upscale
And opted for leather.

But, underneath it all,
When you stripped away
All the details that there were.
They wound up
All the same.

And it bothered him greatly
That the people in his life
Didn’t even seem to know
That things were that way.

He had to wonder
What had happened
Years and years ago
That would have caused
Such a thing to happen.
That would have caused
Everyone to be the same.
To follow the same rules,
And the same ways.
To the point
Where nothing else
Existed.

This was where the scars came from
That were on his heart.

As he stood there
Looking in the mirror,
He knew as time went past,
There would be still more scars
Made upon his heart.
By the people
He called friends.

All because
He was really different
From them.

The scars he saw upon his heart
When he looked into the mirror
Didn’t make him sad at all.
To him, they were a part of life.
Just like smiles,
Laughter,
And happy memories,
There would always be
Tears,
And pain.

That’s just how life works.

It was the memories he had
Of the causes of those scars
That made him sad.
That and the knowledge
That none of the friends
That had hurt him,
Leaving scars like that
Upon his heart,
Would ever understand
What they had done to him.