Hello, you have reached the thought process of Ana Cristina, please leave a memory at the beep and she will get back to you shortly.
Sadness does not exist, but I exist. I exist in the wrong, the temptation; my only purpose is to float. Floating does not happen easily, I must concentrate, focus the black matter, bleach it white. Black is a comfort, white is a luxury. I am white so I come from family, money, picket fences. Right? The right answer is usually wrong, in the context of stereotypes. Statistics feed stereotypes, they are based on fact, I am statistically more likely to succeed, to have a good well-being. Well-being never concerned me, I prefer to get lost. But to feel hopelessly lost, in a place that doesn’t understand me…Panic. I am terrified to face the image that stares back at me in the mirror, but only on happy occasions. Happy occasions, what a mockery, the earth is slipping, every passing moment. I am destroying the earth, trodden by steel-toed shoes. Shoes made by the slender fingers of misfortune, knees caked with mud, trash people. The trash people serve the suited people. Suited people regurgitate such disgusting things, they like coffee served in paper cups, plastic tops. Remember when plastic pirates ruled the seven seas? This was yesterday, but I cannot remember. I use string to remember my past, my present, my future. In the future I will be trapped, the strings will be in knots, tangle my fate, there is a dead end. Dead ends are not real, I can always go up, unless there is cement. Cemented in a world unfit for me, no counterpart to feed on, no one to absorb this unsettling feeling. So unsettling that water wont swell in the eyes of tragedy, but here in twilight they are hot, steaming. I remember what I was on the hot, steaming nights, when we would trampoline with mosquitoes. Trampolines help me float, but I always come back, become what I was. What I was, what I am, what I will be, is an unstable element; ready, set, react with this toxic world. Sludge is black, it fuels this toxic world, black gives me comfort, sludge stained heart. An explosion of heart, or concaving rather, leaves no room for religion. I will go to hell, no religion, unless I am happy, find religion. Religion is just a word and I am not unhappy. I am the girl living in comforts, water to moisten lips, torn apart by none other than myself. I tear, just like paper, paper filled with words. It is the words’ fault, they wont congregate to form happiness, to make sense, to become fire, fire to dry eyes. Eyes, lips, heavy hands holding atoms, bonded by nature, torn by its children. The children are all insane for thinking they can control the universe. I am a child.
Beep.
