tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19414130015511308002011-04-21T14:18:31.981-07:00I have only heard this, but there is apparently some sort of acting technique that says that if you want to make your character a hero, you put them up against their greatest obstacles and watch them try to overcome them. I have also found that a hero always finds some way to express their pain. Well, I want to be a hero, in the sense that I want to triumph, so I better start trying every method.bittersweetkisseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16249927997274680537noreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1941413001551130800.post-7061484139906730762007-10-17T14:49:00.000-07:002007-10-17T14:50:37.714-07:00You would probably think it’s strange.<br /><br /> Why, if you hate someone so much, would you listen to them speak, mindlessly, just to hear the sound of their voice? Not because they’re talking about you, or because you’re interested in what they’re hearing, but just because you need to hear the sound of their voice. You need to hear what their voice sounds like, what it used to sound like, how they used to talk to you. Before their usual dialogue consisted of screaming, before their tone was filled with worry. And because you don’t hate them. Because the only real person you hate is yourself. Listening to their conversations means that you can be a part of their world when your not around, because its then when everything is perfect. You’re the only person who screws things up.<br /><br /> I wonder if she can hear me crying through the phone.<br /><br /> I stay on even when their conversation is done and both parties have hung up. Finally, I close the phone when the man’s voice comes on, telling me there is a receiver off the hook, please hang up, blah blah blah. I hang up because I can’t stand the sound of his voice, its fake, full of false promises, and I don’t want to hear fake voices anymore. I’m tired of false hope. And I’m tired of lying, of being lied to. But mostly I’m just tired. All the time. Every minute of every day. Even on the weekends, my energy begins to die out at four. I’m not as much fun anymore because I’ve got no energy to be. All of it goes into doing things I need to do physically to survive, like going up those goddamn stairs or walking across Madison Avenue. The rest goes into calming my mind, things I need to do to stop me from killing myself, even though slowly, unintentionally, I am.<br /><br /> I wonder how long I can hide out for. Maybe if I stay down here, crawl into the little room, maybe everyone will just decide I’m too much trouble anyway and forget about me. Then I can just think for the rest of my life. I can die happy because I’ll be happy. I’ll have everything I need to make me happy. All I need is my mind and I can pretend to be whatever I want: skinny, pretty, kind. Loved. I know it’s harsh, but it’s the truth. I’m not going to lie anymore, at least not here. I don’t want to be dead because then they’ll have won, but I don’t want to exist anymore either. I want to live only inside my own head, exist only for my own feelings, and I don’t care if I never see the world again. I can just pretend I have; I’ll explore it in my own mind. God only knows our imagined world is much better than the real thing.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1941413001551130800-706148413990673076?l=tiredofthetestingofwills.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>bittersweetkisseshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16249927997274680537noreply@blogger.com0