|Reviews for If Only They Could See|
| Plato's Optic Runaway chapter 1 . 10/2/2003
Smashes the bunny on the head and splits it in two. It was pink; it deserved to die. Your poem...flawlessly portrays what I go through. Heh, nice job. You're right-why can't they see that? Everyone just assumes that the cutting is this huge mental problem and that it must immediately be fixed...why does everyone fail to see beyond that, that there's obviously a deeper sorrow, a deeper suffering that causes 'the' problem of self mutilation, which later, if untreated, leads to addictive masochism? (And it doesn't help when you're given up on...that's another thing...if your friends are imploring you to stop..I'd...I'd suggest you do...) Though, personally, I never saw my cutting as a big dilemma; I liked it and rarely felt guilty, except around one particular person...but it became my life, my passion, my lover...I fell under its enchanting spell...so now I'm a masochist. And I can't escape.
I've been working on it though, just because...the one person I truly love has begged me to. Anyway, I'm in a relatively good mood for once and you've inspired me to play counselor. So bear with my crapload of sweet nothing that I'm going to throw at you. Please? I just...want to help someone...brand me as a preachy fool, I don't mind, just...yeah. Here's some advice from a temporarily and perhaps permanent survivor:
Look, everything may seem bleak and utterly pointless, (which most of it is, heh...) but there is a light to every life...there is a bit of the stars' mirror in everyone, but sometimes these splinters of reflection are buried deep within one, so they can be rather difficult to locate. One just has to find it...those who fail to look to the sky and see its silver embroidery, the sunshine of death, only seeing the drab black cloth of eternal night, blinded by the senseless misery it depicts...they fail in existence as well, slowly fading away into nothing. For when a star cannot even see itself, how can it twinkle so that others may? And in a universe of light, a burnt out spirit is useless, and cast out to die alone.
I can infer that your piece (yes you have one) is definitely dim; mine is that of a stormy day, a stream of grey light stabbing through my self-created midnight in the middle of the day. But it is bright and nurturing nonetheless if I allow it to be, (I've been avoiding it nearly my entire life...heh, I'm a creature of the night) guiding me through the darkness with its luminescent fingers. If I spread my dusty wings and ascend above the clouds that shade me from its true radiance, I can see that it is a current of ambrosial gold, no longer overlooked by the overpowering blackness of my world. Everyone has a goblet of this drink of the gods in their land of shadow, but everyone's is different...some plains of existence are drenched in this sweetness, while others are like mine, nearly enveloped with the dusk...but...the light peeks through at unexpected times; a first dawn can ignite at 2 in the morning...really.
Anyway, I am well aware that all I just said is a bloody load of tripe, so...just ignore me. I was making it up as I went along. It was strange enough telling someone that. I just...I don't know. Now that I reread it, I realize no one would consciously listen to all that. I got rather carried away...as is a wont of mine. I apologize, I had no right to say all that...so...just forget it. ::sigh:: I'll play with some sharp objects for a while. Oh wait...damn, I can't do that anymore...
| Tormented Romantic chapter 1 . 9/24/2003
*sigh* no one will ever understand until they've stood in that bathroom w/ the razor to their wrist. You expressed that so beautifully here and I especially liked the stanza: "If only they could see/Beyond the bloody floor/They'd realize I dont want to/But, I have no choice." It expressed the helplessness so perfectly. Another wonderfully written masterpiece.