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 The Flame

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Брой мнения : 53
Localisation : Under the stars
Registration date : 07.05.2013

ПисанеЗаглавие: The Flame   Вто 07 Май 2013, 21:11

The flame was staring at me. Judgmentally.

“Aren’t you going to light up this cigarette already?”

“Why should I?” I asked.

The flame was staring at me. I was staring at the flame.

Suddenly the wind extinguished it. It was dark. It was empty.


Here it was again.

I lit up my cigarette and inhaled the smoke.

Where is my life going? What am I supposed to do now? Now that I have lost everything and I see nothing ahead? What’s the point? Why not just jump off a bridge and get it over with? Life is just a battle that always ends in death. Always. Whatever you do your whole life, no matter what you try to achieve, you will end up in the cemetery, six feet under, most likely next to a hobo. Who cares if you have been a CEO or a janitor? We are equal. We have created the idea of hierarchy, the idea of being different. We are not different from one another. We are all the same. For some people it is just a consolation to think that they are worth more than somebody else. Money doesn’t make you more worthy. Fame doesn’t either. Nothing does actually. We all wake up in the morning looking like crap, with a smelly breath. Why should I consider myself better than the gypsy kid who is always begging for a quarter near the bridge? Society makes me think that I am. Because I have money, because I have access to things that this gypsy kid has never even dreamed of. But in the end of this journey, when it is all over, we will finally be equal. We will be together under the ground, breathless and society isn’t going to be there to tell us who we are and how we should feel about it.

My cigarette was half gone.

So it turns out that it isn’t important who you are? No. It isn’t important who you think you are, compared to others. We are unique, and yet, we are all the same. We are all people. White, black, yellow, red. Who cares? We all have feelings, we all suffer the same things, just under different circumstances. We put labels on people and we believe that this is the only thing that describes them. One is not just smart or stupid, beautiful or ugly, good or bad. We are a combination of everything. I decide who to be today. I decide which mask to put on my face. I decide whether to be good or bad. It’s all up to me. And no one has the right to say anything or to put a label on my forehead. Or on my gravestone for that matter.

“A loving daughter”

And what about that one of a hundred times when I shouted at my mother because I was sure that she was wrong? Or that time when I told my father that I hated him and I actually meant it for a fraction of a second? How does that fit “loving”?

It doesn't Because we can’t be described in one world. Hell, we can’t be described even in a hundred!

My cigarette was almost entirely gone. I tapped it once and the ashes fell to the ground still burning on the pavement. I stared at the little burning gray ball. It was slowly dying. Just like me.

Suddenly the flame was gone.

And now what?
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Jane Undead
A Strange Kind of Woman

Брой мнения : 360
Registration date : 07.05.2011

ПисанеЗаглавие: Re: The Flame   Нед 12 Май 2013, 17:10

Нелошо есе. Smile Може би тия неща с цигарата могат да се махнат, понеже не допринасят с нищо към есеистичната част и да си стане чисто есе.
Иначе, не съм съгласна, че страдаме от едни и същи неща. Има неща, които зависят от пола и от расата.
Ако трябва да се заям наедро, има значение не само ти какво си мислиш, а и дали обществото е зад гърба ти или не. Това има значение в много случаи. Има значение и дали закона е с теб или срещу теб. Или някъде по средата.
Като цяло подхода "ние сме това, което си мислим, че сме" не ми харесва. Да, донякъде е вярно. Но също така ние сме такива, каквито изглеждаме и такива, каквито обществото ни е казало да си мислим че сме, или такива каквито обществото ни вижда.

But since I'm feeling kinda lonely and my defenses are low
Why don't you give it a shot and get it ready to go?
I'm looking for anonymous and fleeting satisfaction
I want to tell my daddy I'll be missing in action.
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