E
Eva
I couldn't think of anything good to write so I just took this out of my journal and did some editing. I have severe issues with fragments. I'm fully aware of this problem. I was wondering what people thought about grammar errors in writing. Is it completely unacceptable or is it okay when itn lends to the overall feeling of the piece? I hope you like it.
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Oh! It hit me hard today, all of a sudden, like a
lightning bolt out of the sky or a thumbtack to the
heel. I'd spent the day indulging in a melancholy
funk. The world, ah… but she is cruel. And me?
Terribly misunderstood, a grand victim of society, put-upon and all. I went to the local bookstore chain to buy the paper and found myself instead entrenched in the music critic magazine section.
Now I've never been very hip. Musical and cultural
trends wash over me without making much of an imprint.
Those things, great things, we were all supposed to
have felt as a generation I never could divine. I
lived in a magical little half-world ruled by the
archaic and bazaar. At school in an effort to find my
niche I explored the cultural playing field and found
it littered with landmines. To one side there were the
"in", popular by default and honest in their
vapidness. To the other side lay the "out",
rebel-wannabe-types who were too white, middle class
and satisfied to ever really be interesting. On a
topical level I could see in myself some part of the
"out" and so attempted to tailor my personality to
their form. I listened to the shallow rock backed by
shallow anger. But there was no real sorrow behind
their lyrics and I just couldn't get it. I retreated
back to my little world, and now only surface
periodically.
Then a couple years ago a friend of mine gave me
this CD. It was kind of dirty sounding, like bare feet in the summertime. But I got it. The hip band much adored by critics and
teenage girls all over the land grabbed my attention
and has held it since. You see I'm nothing if not
faithful. I loved their music at first listen but it
wasn't until today that I found something more to
cherish. I said I was faithful, yes, but really that's
just a euphemism for my insanity. It started simply
really. Either with Conrad or Bob Dylan or Blake but
somewhere along the line I developed an unhealthy
tendency towards hero worship. I take someone
promising, like an author or musician and hold them up
to the light to look for holes, faults. Sometimes I find
little punctures and sometimes I discover gaping
tears. What am I looking for? Perfection. I was raised
in a non religious family and often I find the burden of science and logic is too much for my frail mind. I don’t want to be explained how the world works, I want to believe in God. I want to orbit around someone or something truly worthy of my attention.
Mostly I hide this desire of mine behind layers of books and knowledge. But today I saw his face on a glossy magazine cover and felt that familiar pull at my chest. Whether sorrow or self-hate I couldn’t tell. All I know is that I wanted to cry, prostrate myself in front
of his magnificence and weep like a child. Because, well,
because he was worthy. Because I could taste the
charisma dripping off his form and because when I
really examine it from all sides I'm a follower,
nothing more. I know we all like to pretend we're the
grand and glorious stars of our own little stories.
But if life has taught me anything it's that not
everyone is a star, some of us are just supporting
characters.
Do you see it? That tiny tear in the fabric of my
face? So small really, but once you notice it no
amount of fine stitch work can lessen it's presence.
I'm flawed and cowardly and not in any way like him.
So I'll put him on a pedestal till he invariably
falls, then I'll start over again. Searching the faces
of strangers with furtive glances. Hoping the next one
to walk by might be better than the last. Waiting finally for faith to visit.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Oh! It hit me hard today, all of a sudden, like a
lightning bolt out of the sky or a thumbtack to the
heel. I'd spent the day indulging in a melancholy
funk. The world, ah… but she is cruel. And me?
Terribly misunderstood, a grand victim of society, put-upon and all. I went to the local bookstore chain to buy the paper and found myself instead entrenched in the music critic magazine section.
Now I've never been very hip. Musical and cultural
trends wash over me without making much of an imprint.
Those things, great things, we were all supposed to
have felt as a generation I never could divine. I
lived in a magical little half-world ruled by the
archaic and bazaar. At school in an effort to find my
niche I explored the cultural playing field and found
it littered with landmines. To one side there were the
"in", popular by default and honest in their
vapidness. To the other side lay the "out",
rebel-wannabe-types who were too white, middle class
and satisfied to ever really be interesting. On a
topical level I could see in myself some part of the
"out" and so attempted to tailor my personality to
their form. I listened to the shallow rock backed by
shallow anger. But there was no real sorrow behind
their lyrics and I just couldn't get it. I retreated
back to my little world, and now only surface
periodically.
Then a couple years ago a friend of mine gave me
this CD. It was kind of dirty sounding, like bare feet in the summertime. But I got it. The hip band much adored by critics and
teenage girls all over the land grabbed my attention
and has held it since. You see I'm nothing if not
faithful. I loved their music at first listen but it
wasn't until today that I found something more to
cherish. I said I was faithful, yes, but really that's
just a euphemism for my insanity. It started simply
really. Either with Conrad or Bob Dylan or Blake but
somewhere along the line I developed an unhealthy
tendency towards hero worship. I take someone
promising, like an author or musician and hold them up
to the light to look for holes, faults. Sometimes I find
little punctures and sometimes I discover gaping
tears. What am I looking for? Perfection. I was raised
in a non religious family and often I find the burden of science and logic is too much for my frail mind. I don’t want to be explained how the world works, I want to believe in God. I want to orbit around someone or something truly worthy of my attention.
Mostly I hide this desire of mine behind layers of books and knowledge. But today I saw his face on a glossy magazine cover and felt that familiar pull at my chest. Whether sorrow or self-hate I couldn’t tell. All I know is that I wanted to cry, prostrate myself in front
of his magnificence and weep like a child. Because, well,
because he was worthy. Because I could taste the
charisma dripping off his form and because when I
really examine it from all sides I'm a follower,
nothing more. I know we all like to pretend we're the
grand and glorious stars of our own little stories.
But if life has taught me anything it's that not
everyone is a star, some of us are just supporting
characters.
Do you see it? That tiny tear in the fabric of my
face? So small really, but once you notice it no
amount of fine stitch work can lessen it's presence.
I'm flawed and cowardly and not in any way like him.
So I'll put him on a pedestal till he invariably
falls, then I'll start over again. Searching the faces
of strangers with furtive glances. Hoping the next one
to walk by might be better than the last. Waiting finally for faith to visit.