House of Lincoln

21

A part of this essay presentation was that we had to give it a title, followed by our name subtitled underneath. Read in full, my essay's title was "If the Gods Revealed Their Secrets to Us By: Lincoln Loud." It was not a smash hit, but I'm fond of how my name looks on a passionate piece of prose like this. I could practically slice it into thin strips, cook it, and eat its flakey white paper body, swallowing the penciled words and red-penned critiques. A burst of flavor, savory, and made from all-natural tree wood, graphite, and ink. I was fond of the title, but it appears my class thought it to be a bit pretentious and forced. Which is nonsense. I think it to be quite creative, and its abridgment does not disappoint. To me only, I suppose.

I also brought up a contentious subject to question. Religion. Not just Catholicism, but all religions' concept of a "god" to worship. I wrote about the inherent flaw in democracy, and how it will forever create a perpetual divide. A country that's unified? Hah, godless world. Now that's "not realistic." Write that in red pen. I'm not advocating for another form of government, I actually know nothing about politics at all. I just wrote what I thought. I didn't need to question myself. I wrote what I believe. It's the only thing I feel that's left of me. Every other part of me is slowly morphing at the will of the house. I could run away. I won't. I wouldn't make it. I'd die. Godless world. Precisely with politics, the same goes for religion. I didn't advocate for anything, I only commented on some specific ideas. I didn't even criticize any part of religion or "god." I just questioned what god knew that we didn't. The short version of my answer: Enough to destroy us and start over.

If any of this comes off as sad or dejected, I'd like to assure you that I feel pretty content. Compared to my past where I lacked any control over my brain, all these dreams and theories that are forming seem to be the vestigial remains of self that I have left. "Disturbance comes only from within—from our own perceptions." (Marcus Aurelius) I will use this imagination to combat the inner attempts at ruining my control. I am undisturbed. Now, and until I forget. As long as I'm aware of this house's influence, and I keep holding my own beliefs and opinions firmly, it is the closest thing to a handrail I have. It keeps me grounded in reality. Does that make sense? (If I ask, that means I care.)

I haven't forgotten Stella. She now only lives in my mind. Her image is fading quickly, and I've forgotten what her eye color was. I should've written it down. Damn, I miss her. We only knew each other for two days. In that time, maybe a total of an hour and a half each. Three hours of time with her. God, a lifetime with her wouldn't be enough. All I remember is her purple sweater. Is it foolish to fall in love with a girl this easily? Have I written that down? Have I said it before? "I love her. I love Stella." Even during the times when I felt no emotion at all, thinking of her in that clothing store, her looking cutely over those colorful socks, the image just makes this feeling in my chest ache. What did she say? After I told her all about the house in that ice cream place... what did she say? "That's a hell of a thing to take in." Hah. It still makes me chuckle. I wish I felt like laughing more back then. We could have had fun together. I miss her.

When I go to bed, before I sleep, I'll think about her. Imagine us in different scenarios, that type of thing. I can't tell if it helps me fall asleep or if it keeps me up. Maybe it depends on the scenario I think up. Yesterday I imagined us out at a fancy restaurant. I imagined we snuck in and sat at a table, ordered a bunch of food, ate, and then ran out without paying for it. I know that's childish, but... love is childish. Calling each other pet names and wearing each other's hoodies. It makes you feel nice inside. Deep inside your chest, rising up to your mouth, and making you smile. A real, authentic smile. Because you love somebody, and they love you back.

...

And that's it. That's all it is. And it makes you happy. Then it makes me happy because you're happy. I'm happy you're happy. Who am I talking to? I guess myself. Maybe Stella. Maybe I wish she was listening to me right now. Maybe she is. Maybe she's not dead. Maybe she's in that rainforest. Maybe that wasn't a hallucination. Maybe this is a hallucination. Hell, now what? I don't know what to think. Maybe I like it that way. Maybe thinking is too tiring and I've done enough of it. No. The minute I stop thinking is the day I die, both literally and figuratively. The world is odd. C'est la vie. I imagine myself at the beach sometimes. I imagine the waves pushing and rolling over me. I sit on the hot sand, and I'm just looking over the ocean as it slowly bleeds red. The sky darkens, and down reaches millions of shadowy hands. They've come to take me off the earth and pull me to a world beyond the clouds. Not a Heaven nor a Hell, but a room with God himself. He will tell me what I've been doing wrong my whole life, and then he'll put me back on the sand, and nothing will change.