Bang Bang You're Dead

Time for another disorganized brain -blurb.

Just got back from seeing Bang Bang You're Dead for the second time at my school.

I'm always interested in the psychological - there are so many people that need help. That's the whole reason for the play: to evoke thoughts people tend to shy away from and help people become more aware of the bullying and suicide statistics and their domino like effects.

As I said before, these topics are interesting to me. I'm a very spiritual person. I thoroughly enjoy soul searching and thought sifting. My own mind is an endless desert, flourishing against the better judgement of a first glance. But my mom? I have no idea. I don't think I'll ever know since she's so unyieldingly averse to anything darker than sunset.  She shuts off like a clam, and like ten minutes ago, usually ends the conversation walking out of the  room saying how much I enjoy the darkness, how I can't get enough of it. Then, there's the God Card.

"I know it's not nice, but it's a necessary thing to hear."

"Jesus is necessary to me."

How can I argue with that? I can't. I can't say anything.

Then, my thoughts quickly spiral, and I end up lying in a pit like heck.

"If I'm so dark and hopeless, why should I even try? It's obvious I can't change myself. It'd be a sin to put that on my kids, so I can't have those or a husband either. There's no point. I have no use for life, and, neither it for me. No hope, no future. Just the bleak and melancholy way I was raised. This is why I can't have kids. I have my father's eyes and so my father's tongue. I have my mother's wrath, bitterness. What use am I? I'm nothing, no one. Few consider me a friend. Rooms are too full of strange, empty faces. My hand knows no stroke of a brush anymore. All I loved and passioned for had been put down quietly some years before. In the name of "education," so I can follow in the footsteps of the Boswells before me. They're all a little off. Work too hard. I'm not like them. I want to be free, but the key has been tossed. Now, my childhood is dead and I'm forced to wear the corpse as a blanket on the streets. Paper thin skin won't break the chill.

Then come the bitter tears, and then, the mourning. Mourning for myself, my misfortune. My failures and dreams, crunched under the cruel and screeching tires of life.

I don't know what to do.

Am I depressed? I don't know. They're too busy with my brother to evaluate me.  I suppose that's another I'll never find out, though I'm fairly certain I'm not a 'norm.'