They’re Alive, Again
I like to learn big words. It’s not that they make me look good, it’s that they make me talk with great aplomb (I could’ve used confidence, but I didn’t, I used a big word instead). Big words are nice. They’re my Gucci and my Prada. Except they don’t cost so much, you just pick them up. Yet again, you definitely won’t find any of them at a mall or a store, so such comparison is irrelevant. Big words aren’t my Gucci nor my Prada, big words are just big words, they’re bigger than that.
In my fallible opinion, you make yourself. We all start out very timid but we grow to become something, by choice. You pile your books and weigh your words and end up with an intellect posture.
Talking about books, I, personally, like dusty books, they remind me of a certain category of people. The people that I’ve ignored, yet have grown to admire. The people who now intimidate me, because they have earlier outsmarted me. The people who were left alone. Those people had their thoughts, and their books as their company, while I had just other “people” as company. Their companionships were the voices in their heads, the voices I chose to shut off because of the masking voices around me, the external voices that were of no good.
Dusty books are ignored because the other prettier books are on the cool shelves. They have their “big” words, nonetheless, and they did not need any readers. Well, they definitely did not need the readers who go around reading the prettier books just because they’re…. pretty, that’s for sure. He didn’t want to sit with the pretty people just because they’re… pretty. He thought he -himself- was aesthetic, his mind was spruce, his heart was sapphire. He needn’t the pretty people, nor their trashy, sugar-tarnished talks, nor their pretty outfits, nor their pretty parties, nor their pretty friends. He needn’t nothing but his books, and his big words. The big words he never used in an actual conversation, the big words he used in his own world, in his own definition of a “pretty” conversation.
I guess my biggest mistake was my time wasted on pretty people. It didn’t make me any prettier, on the contrary, I felt grotesque on the inside. Laughters that tasted like acid, small talks that burnt like vodka, and hypocrisy that stabbed like thorns. I’m not ashamed anymore, because I made new friends. I don’t know what they look like, though, they’re not so definite. They’re not yet drawn and coloured into complications, they’re just voices for now. They’re just makings of characters I read in my favourite books, they’re just of my own creations that have been bordered because of my own mistakes and my own experiences. They could have been something, but they’re not, because I started noticing them later in life; later, when they became obscured by real ground obligations. But I am grateful my imagination isn’t completely stern, I am grateful my illusions are alive and I can clearly hear them breathe the heart-aching breaths of disappointment. A disappointment that I yearn to fix. A disappointment that I can be a better person. I can hear them breathe and their every breath is heavy, and I loathe the person I was for that.
But now that they live with me, my every step does make a difference. Maybe not to the pretty people around me, but to the indefinite people in my head. It soothes their radiating breaths, and warms their cold bodies. It makes them alive again.
I just need to know that as I walk, I’m doing something good, to myself. Earlier, I would willingly dive in the comfort of the people around me, but now that I’ve experienced a miraculously bigger consolation, even bigger than my big words, I’m diving in my own comfort, in my lack of self-disappointments, in my urge to be a better person. All that time spent befriending pretty people was also spent at war with myself. All that time wasted fighting for the other team costed me bruises and burns and scars. Bruises and burns and scars that only now have begun to heal.
Because only I can heal them, alone.