Mr. Gullible


There are sounds, sounds that trigger past experiences or thoughts. We use these aounds to distract ourselves from the reality we live in today. The hustle and bustle of every day life can become too much for our liking, so we use said sounds, to bring us to the blissful bittersweet, misty indiference of imagination. We cannot handle silence. Quite sad, actually. To think we have evolved from the barbaric, naive, utterly dumb cavemen we were, into the aware, technology dependent humans we are today, only to be afraid of something as simple as silence.

We cannot say we are not afraid of silence. We need something to connect ourselves to the outside world. Without sounds, we become antsy, yearning to hear something to know we are alive. It becomes too much to just sit and relish in the silence we hear. We need more.

They call us consumers for a reason. To escape the silence I hear right now, I am writing or tapping my pencil whenever I can. It is all so useless, we are going to hear silence, but I am doing everything in my power to avoid it. This will not matter when we are all gone.

To create a mixture of jumbled words by inexperienced writers, such as myself, is the most shallow attempt to avoid the hard truth. Which is, we are not afraid of the silence, we are avoiding our own minds. Our minds are powerful things that could tear down, with the only weapon of negative thoughts. I used to know what I wanted, I used to be sure of my feelings, and to use my mind for better things, such as learning. Now, my mind is being used to create vibrations through my mouth, using my muscles and potruding bones, to create the sinful words, “I am fine.” Any human being who has dealt with the experiences I have been put through, will naturally be skeptical of those ungodly collection of words.

A human being, I would like to call, Mr. Gullible, will believe the sin I have put in the corners of my tongue. It is not their fault, and I am not angry with them.

In fact, I congradulate myself when I have successfully used those words in the correct tone, convincing my counterpart.

So, do not feel terrible that not a person is questioning my choice of words, this is how I intended it to be.

Yes, it may be abnormal to feel proud of yourself to make someone believe your lies.

Yes, it may be abnormal to do everything in your power to avoid the silence, which has a deeper meaning, beyond my understanding.

Yes, it may be abnormal to tear yourself apart, regularly. But I am not normal. Besides, I am used to this treatment. Do not feel sympathy for me, as I have learned that causing people to feel guilty for my actions, does not improve my mental state. Then again, nothing does. The sounds I have mentioned are beginning to wear off. I have become immune to the reality of it all.

While I am attempting to distract myself by tapping my pencil, or concentrating on my hand making swift movements, injecting its led onto the paper, I am thinking. And while thinking may be beneficial for most, for me it is detrimental. It only takes a couple negative thoughts for me to convince myself I am the scum of the Earth. As most people would attempt to convince me otherwise, I am so far down, deep into the hole of self hatred, there is no way out.

I have simply accepted it as a part of myself. My being is now in the midst of complete numbness. I either feel too much, or feel nothing at all. My primary feeling is sadness. I have just finished tying the hypothetical noose of my mind. I am half a soul, divided. Mr. Gullible cannot see through me. He either does not care or is not paying attention. I truly do not know the depth of the hole I have dug myself, for I have covered myself with naivety and not caring. But what I do know is I have trusted my life with Mr. Gullible. He is a part of me, as he is a part of everyone.

People pretend to care, or never cared to begin with. Or they believe the lies we tell them. The part in me believes my lies. I have pretended I have not gotten worse than I was before. I pretend I am fine. Ah, those sinful words have gotten me places. Guess what? I am lying. All of my teenage years have been a lie. And for that, I should not be allowed to exist.

I should not be allowed to tell my lies anymore. I have reached for help before, and I have concluded that it does not help. Maybe I will not commit yet, but if I am progressivly getting worse at an alarming rate, I am not going to last in the world. A scary thought, I know, but I can promise you I am not going to commit yet. I have a sliver of hope things might work out. But be warned, I am not to be trusted. And this is not a suicide note. At least not yet. And if I said that I would live for you for nothing in return, well I am sorry Mr. Gullible, but lying is all I have learned.

Ever since I have been diagnosed with depression, I have looked at things differently. My friends no longer want to hang out with me, they put up with me. A bad day is no longer rain, it is pouring.

A meal is no longer something I nourish myself with, it is something chocked full of calories to make myself uglier. A person giving me a compliment is now someone lying to me, pitying me. A sharpener is no longer something to sharpen my pencil with, it is something I can further hurt myself with. Maybe this is why no one likes me. Love never wanted me anyway. To which I ask you, Mr. Gullible, are you concerned?

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