The mother woke up with a jerk. In her dream, her son whispered words of the past into her conscience, the dark room at the the back of her mind brought his tiny hands and blue eyes to wake her up. She closed her eyes and tried to rid herself of that memory; Hospital room, a phone ringing somewhere in the hallway, the nurse brought a blanketed tiny bundle to her. She remembered her son's blue eyes.
She breathed in and laid back to go to sleep. She dreamt of a room without curtains, overlooking a railroad.
Thankfully, her son wasn't there.
My mother's motto for life was, 'move on'. I suppose I owe that philosophy her life, since moving on was the only way she dealt with all my damages.
Disappointment. That was all she felt.
I was a great student in school, i went to college and somehow everything went downhill. I became a pathalogical liar and a silly excuse for life.
I hurt everyone around me and angered everything i knew. My mother dealt with it, even though this was something she should have never had to go through, or work with. My failure wasn't all my fault, there were other factors but I blame myself for the amount of worry i gave her. I don't entirely regret the college days, I had a lot of fun, for sure.
Having fun is the most destructive, enjoyable, awarding, punishing thing that you do. You don't need it, sometimes you do but most of the time it just happens to you, or you make it happen.
There's a limit but no one follows it; There's a punishment at the end but everyone gets over it.
I began with everything, an everything with no limit, I end with limitless nothing. Everyone does.
I wonder why i'm writing this. A better pastime would be just to kill myself.
Kill myself, a haunting phrase.
I hate life and myself and everyone and everything. It nauseates me and makes me a coward.
A/N: Normality, not reality.