87 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
87 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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They
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----
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I hate waking up to the realization that I've lost something.
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Particularly those first few moments of panic when I try in vain to remember
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the last place I saw it. I backtrack mentally, through people and places and
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time. It occurs to me that I can't remember when I last had it. The thoughts
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whirl faster through my mind. How long has it been since I've seen it? How
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could I not have noticed that it was gone? If I've gone on this long without
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it, is it less important than I've always thought? How will I get by without
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it? Will I ever find it, or is it gone forever?
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That happened to me just this morning. I woke up and realized that I'd
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lost myself. I don't know how long I've been gone, and can't remember the
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last time I've seen me. Luckily, I have many other selves. Fitting into one
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is as easily accomplished as stepping into a pair of jeans. Like jeans, some
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selves are more comfortable than others. The self I wear depends on my
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agenda for the day. My work self isn't very comfortable, the fabric is a bit
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stiff and unforgiving. My family self is somewhat comfortable, but a little
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too flowery for my taste, and too much pastel washes me out. My friend self
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is bright and cheery, and so comfortable that sometimes it feels as if I'm
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wearing nothing. But only sometimes. Then there's my alone self, the
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techno-age me that hungers for knowledge and, given even a few moments of
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solitude, submerges itself into a world of computers and networks and
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protocols and code.While I enjoy the way this me feels, it's still not the
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original me. I miss the person I used to be.
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I was kind and considerate and giving. I would, and oftentimes did,
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give my last dollar to a homeless person. They told me it was foolish and
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called me an easy mark, so I stopped. I no longer give money to the
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indigent. I no longer look at those people in their alcohol-stained clothing
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and toothless grins and wonder what path they chose to lead them to those
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ends. I no longer feel the pity and sympathy I once did. Instead I feel
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contempt.
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I was an idealistic dreamer. They told me to get my head out of the
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clouds and act responsibly, so I stopped. I no longer stare at the walls and
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daydream, my pencil tapping a relentless beat on the table top. I no longer
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have the willingness to swallow my fear and take the risk, the risk that
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quickens my heartbeat. Instead I feel apathy.
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I was caring and selfless, and always there for those close to me.
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Friends came to me regularly for advice, knowing I'd be there with a
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shoulder to cry on and a willing ear. They told me to worry more about
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myself and less about others, so I stopped. I no longer am able to offer
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endless hours of advice and consolation. I no longer spend hours waiting for
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someone's tears to dry from my sleeve. Instead I feel impatience.
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I was open and honest. My soul shone through my eyes. I saw nothing
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wrong with letting everyone know just how I felt. They told me I was leaving
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myself open for hurt, that I was too vulnerable, so I stopped. I no longer
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wear my heart on my sleeve. I no longer let you see how much your words
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hurt. Instead, I show indifference.
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They told me I'd change as I grew older, and they were right. They told
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me that my perception were off, that the world wasn't the perfect place I
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saw it as being, and they were right. I hate them for being right. Long ago,
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I promised myself I'd never change. I'd grow, yes, but I'd never lose the
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person I was. I was wrong. I hate me for being wrong.
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Maybe I'll never again be what I once was. Maybe, in some apathetic,
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indifferent stupor, I ripped apart my original self and used the fabric to
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build the other, diluted selves. Everyone deserves a second chance, though.
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So if you happen to see me out wandering in the cold darkness, please send
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me home. It's lonely here without me.
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krystalia
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
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= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
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= http://www.dis.org/se7en/fuck =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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