Memories

“I don’t believe in ghost.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re not a ghost,” I said “there is no such thing.”

“Then touch me, hold me. Hold me like you used to.”

I reached out my arm to touch her on the shoulder. “I can’t” I said

“Why not?”

I put my arm back to my side.

“Do you not want to?”

“Of course I want to.” I said “I just can’t”

“Then do it!”

I reach out my arm and touch her on the shoulder. My heart flutters the same way it used to, but instead of warmness my hand is met by a cold void. “I don’t believe in ghost.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re a memory.” I said as my heart sank. I looked back up at her and she was gone.

Invincible?

With youth comes a sort of invincibility, invulnerably? I was, at the tender age of 14, robbed of this invincibility. I was told that if I continued down the path I was heading in that I would not see my 18th birthday. I refused to listen to this; however, and continued down that path.

Teenagers experiment with many things. I experimented with cutting and self harm, while my best friend experimented with drugs. While we were both going down very different paths they seemed to lead to the same end. Neither of us thought that we were invincible, both of us knew that our vices would more than likely be the end of us, and we both headed down the path together.

We both started off small. I cut with used dull shaving razors. I do not know how she started, but when I met her she only smoked weed. Neither of us felt like what we were doing was a big deal, and both of us tried to convince the other it was. At that time I don't think either of us grasped the gravity of the situation. We both still had our invincibility back then.

Me and this girl lost touch with each other because of a fight involving our vices. When we came back into each others lives we were different people. We had both had numerous brushes with death, and we both were starting to wish we could change our lives around. It was only right in my mind that since we started down these paths together we should end together. Her end was death. During her last few days I became closer to her than I have ever become to anyone. If it was not for her I would probably be dead too.

Her death allowed me to change my life around. While I do not see her death as a good thing I believe she would, because it allowed her to change someone else's life. I am 18, and while I still know I am not invincible I believe she is. With death comes a sort of invincibility that no one alive will ever know. SHE is not dead to me, and as long as I live the memory of her will be alive.

Justification?

If the end justifies the means then why do the means not justify the end? Meaning if someone does a lot of horrible things and gets good results and that is okay, why is it not okay if someone does a lot of good things, with good intentions, and it ends badly?

I had nothing but good intentions, and what I thought were good actions. No matter what I do, and how good my intentions are, I always seem to make everything worse. Sometimes I wonder why try? If everything is going to end up worse anyways how necessary is my involvement? That train of thought always leads to this: How much worse would things have turned out if I hadn't gotten involved? Is it worse to do nothing, or try your hardest to do right by someone and fail them?

I try my best, as I feel everyone should, to do right by everyone. It seems to me that everyone I come into contact with is worse off because of it. I just want to touch people, to change peoples lives in a way that other people have helped me change mine.

The Difference Between Fate and Destiny

She was despicable to me in every aspect. The way her bottom lip protruded past her top in a pout that screamed 'FUCK ME'. All I could think was 'who hasn't?' Her eyes the softest blue you can imagine, deceiving in their very nature. She was 13, maybe 14, when I met her. A Newport clenched tightly between her long fingers like her life depended on it. She reeked of Newport's and stale tequila. The tips of her fingers stained black drawing the eye to her crappy dye job. Her hair was black like her finger tips, and it was obvious that she spent hours in front of the mirror making it look like she didn't care. Makeup was usually caked on her face trying to hide something, but no one knows what, no one except me. She held out her cigarette, 'Want a drag?' she said; the filter stained with lip gloss. 'No, thank you' I said. 'Come on' she said, 'Live a little.' She took a long drag and blew the smoke right in my face. I took the Newport from her 'Don't you mean die a little?' I asked, and with that I drew in the smokey nectar from her Newport. I coughed a little as the smoke entered my lungs and she giggled. 'What's your name?' she asked. I replied with some lie; I don't remember which fake name I gave her. She took her cigarette from my hand. 'Come closer' she demanded. I complied with no resistance. She took another drag and stepped even closer to me. She put her arms around my neck and our lips met. She parted her lips slightly, and mine followed suite. She blew the smoke into my mouth. I took the smoke into my lungs once again and she pulled away. This time I kept myself from coughing in order to impress her. 'I'm Hope' she said. 'Is that a fake name?' I asked. I took note of the hypocrisy of accusing someone of giving me a fake name when I gave her one. 'It could be.' she said a sarcastic tone in her soft voice. She took another drag and flicked the cigarette to the ground. She pulled a pack from her purse and took out another one. She lit it, the flame from her lighter lit up her silhouette. I could see bruises and scrapes riddled across her face. This was the only time I ever saw her without make up. 'What happened?' I asked. I tried to say it as casually as I could; she wasn't the type of person to take light of someone caring about her. 'Like you fuckin' care' she answered with a snarl in her voice, and I could tell she was getting annoyed. Her name wasn't Hope, though I have always found it ironic that it was the first name she could come up with. Her name wasn't Grace, Faith, or even Serenity. She had none of these. Her name was Destiny, something she didn't believe in. 'I do fucking care' I said to her. I stepped closer once again, not to kiss her. I wrapped her in a warm embrace, and she nuzzled her head into my neck. There was the slightest smell of vanilla in her hair almost drown out by the smell of vodka. I pulled her down with me to the cold cement ground and sat or laid there for hours with her talking about everything, nothing. She told me all about her life, I felt like in the few hours I got to know her better than I had known anyone before, but at the same time I knew next to nothing about her. She talked about how dissatisfied she was, and it was like everything she said I was thinking but was too scared to say because I didn't think anyone would understand, she understood. Everything she said to me that night seemed so profound, but now I realize it was just adolescent ideals that could never be realized. I never told her my real name, she never asked. I do not recall her ever calling me by any name. Though it didn't seem like a big deal at the time. In retrospect I don't think she cared, or at least didn't want to show she did. 'I don't care about anything but myself' she said matter of factly. She went on to say 'If I don't no one else will.' That was one of the many things she said that night. 'I will' I said, truly convinced that I would. I could have been stroking her fake black hair hardened with hairspray while I said this, or playing with her fingers her nails covered in black sharpie ink. We could have leaned against that old building, its cold bricks making us shiver and clutch each other for warmth, but I do not recall. She didn't believe me, she took another drag. 'Sure you will.', she never said what she meant, which was the only way she was like anyone I have ever met before. She said what she needed to say in her tone. One second the fire of her words could fill you with warmth and give you hope, the next she could fill your soul with cold venom freezing out your very essence. Chain smoking in alley ways, fucking in abandoned buildings. Not normal activities for any 13 year old, they were common place for her. There was so much about her I did not find out till after she was gone. She might have had cancer and slowly died, or got an STD from a lover of hers. She may have been shot for trespassing, or just fucking left. No mater what happened, she is gone. I am left here to pick up the pieces, find out who Destiny really was. Her dad was an abusive alcoholic. She often stayed out till 3 or 4 o' clock in the morning just so she wouldn't have to go home. Her first taste of Vodka, her favorite drink, was at the age of 9. She had a bottle of it thrown at her. Her first cigarette was at age 11 when she stole a pack of Newports from her mother while she had a 'friend' over.

Story of my life

I hold my hand out to grab you, to save you, and you pull yours back. Too scared to take a chance and see what would happen if you would just grab on. So you drown in remorse, and I can no longer help you.

These are my words, and this is my story.

I will begin at the end as every good story should begin. I am dead. Not in a sense that my body has shut down and I have ceased to exist. Though I HAVE ceased to exist, metaphorically at least. It was a cold winter night, the night I ceased to exist. I had just gotten home to find every distraught. That is a lie, I got home and saw everything as it was supposed to be. THESE ARE MY WORDS, AND THIS IS MY STORY! I screamed at the top of my lungs. They were my words, part of my story. At the time those words seemed significant, important? Like anything I could do would EVER be important, 'not even in your dreams'.

I, myself, with my own hands DESTROYED everything in my path. It is my story, so why would I not? If you only have power over one thing do you take complete CONTROL over it, or do you delegate it to someone else? I wanted the control, over anything.

I woke up, my mind no longer distraught, my home was. I destroyed everything I have ever cared about. THESE ARE MY WORDS, AND THIS IS MY STORY, and this is my home. . . If my home was ever a reflection of myself it was now. I sit in the rubble, ruins? Something of the sort. DESTROYED, I did it. I, myself, with my own hands. How was I capable of such atrocities? Evil? Maybe.

I left, never looking back, never looked back, never wanting to, never having a reason, and with nothing to look at anyways. That was a lie of course. One of the little lies we tell ourselves daily to get by. I look back all the time; I am looking back now.

I am the dictator of my future, my words, my story. I am the historian of my past, or an archaeologist of some sort. Studying my past, and trying to understand why everything happened, or how. 'Those that do not study history are doomed to repeat it'. I know my history better than anyone, yet I repeat it all the time.