A girl from my school died last night.
I would cry, but since I didn't know her all that well, they'd only be tears of pity. Still, she really is an amazingly bright and sociable person. The vacuum left by her absence can be felt in a lot of my acquaintances from school.
You don't imagine people like her dying. You imagine people like me dying. People who are constantly tortured, often unnecessarily so, people who are confessed misanthropists. People you could only call brilliant if you ignore all the tarnish.
Not someone like her. No, not at all.
Sister spent the last half hour in pure silence with the occasional sob. I don't want to turn around and see how she's holding up.
. . . . .
Compared to the events that occured last night, it seems like everyone was thrust into a kismetic sink hole. Danielle dies, Tyler says nothing but agh, and the ceramic Last Supper from grandma's trip to Vatican City crumbles.
I wonder what kind of void would be left behind if I met my own end.
Except, I know people will stand infront of my grave/urn and whisper: "I saw this coming a long time ago."
Do. Not. Want. It.
. . . . .
Is it so wrong that I don't cry... or rather, can't cry... because of my own ordeals last night? Even in those late hours my eyes remained dry. My eyes have not met excessive moisture in four months.
If this is a sign from the Kindly Ones to urge me on, it came at too high a price.
. . . . . posted:||9:39 PM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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