Every story has a happy ending; it all depends on where you end the story. I’m afraid that we’ll never get to choose our ending.
It’s entirely stressful on my brain. Thoughts about how life will turn out with every action I direct. Manufacturing sentences that will create sympathetic reactions from the ones who will hopefully read the words I’ve written down.
I have to look forward to every day is my appetite to find a new way to fail myself; I’ve found nothing but problems so far in my life. Searching for hidden answers within the troubles that I face everyday yet I can’t afford anymore problems, I’ve never solved them. I’ve only seemed to dodge them for a time being until they come back around and I keep running away from them because I’m truly a coward. Life fires shots at my back trying to make me fall and give up on running from my problems, the gun held by my adolescent self, demons of my past crying telling me to confront them and fix all of my mistakes.
I want to stop and let the bullet hit me so I can fall and hopefully someone will come and catch me.
Apologies for broken promises, apologies for never keeping promises: of me to stay the same. Watching my mother toss in her grave as I commit foul sins of omission to people who actually care about me, lies constructed with their hearts in mind.
Two notes written out of pens that held nothing but tear drops for ink: poems constructed as my heart aches on how to manufacture these sentences to find something in my life relatable to so maybe someone will find someone to relate to, or just find some confided hope in my words. Spewing my pain across canvases’ attempting to paint the perfect picture of the aggression and pain I hold. Praying for the admiration of my peers, hoping they’ll give me some praise for saying what they want to say and construing them in a fashion they’ll remember.
I want to end my story; I want to end it right where I hold the truest smile. I know I can’t end it as simple as that but I know when that moment happens I’ll be the happiest man and it’ll be a time where nothing was held on my mind and nothing was able to bring my heart down. A point in time where I don’t regret my moments, where my heart isn’t weighted down by the stress, where my words are cherished by a woman I call my woman, where my families ties to me aren’t bothersome.
That’s when I’ll be happiest, I think I’ve seen enough to soak it all in. Diseases and illness that infest my family and they say the genes that we wear are the same and I’ll soon get them too. I’ve heard stories of my uncles and aunts running amok in their forties acting as if they are amidst fraternities and willing to embarrass themselves with reckless drug abuse and destruction of livers.
I know that there will never be a happy ending for them, so I won’t believe that there is one for me. People tell me that I shouldn’t get my hopes up or to ever believe what you see.
I won’t believe in anything. I won’t believe in myself, I won’t believe in acquaintances, I won’t believe in politics. In the end they all let you down, even yourself. Yet I still hold dreams and want to create something beautiful.
Every story has an ending; we’ll never know how it all ends until we write our own tales and tribulations. When we do that, we will find that as we look back on everything. Those are the happiest moments of our lives, the memories.